Archangel
by Konstantinsen
Summary: Whether or not it was fate or consequence, a year in this war-torn land called France was more than enough to transform Jaune Arc into more than a bumbling boy with a sword. He thought he was all alone in this cruel world, unaware that in the ashes of the Russian Empire, a friend was struggling to save the people she could never part with. [Late WWI/Interbellum AU]
1. ACT I - July 15, 1918

_July 15, 1918_

* * *

Jaune heard the whistles before someone screamed the obvious.

" _Artillerie_!"

His head was already tucked under his arm while he pressed himself inside the culvert his squadron had dug for themselves. Even then, despite his experience, he found that he could not get used to the shells landing around them, ripping up holes in the earth and showering them in mud, dirt, and debris.

His ears were still ringing from the blasts when the battle cries of frenzied German infantry resonated over the uneven ridges. Jaune immediately pressed himself behind the barricades, his rifle poking through the slit.

" _Pr_ _é_ _pares vous_!" he ordered.

An unassuming civilian observer would be surprised to find unshaven men of varying ages stiffening and obeying an order from a boy who had barely grown his whiskers. Yet, they did. They trusted him. Or rather, they were cowed by the reputation that preceded the blonde, blue-eyed young man from Greece, Ionas Arkos, simplified for their sakes as Jaune Arc in reference to the legendary heroine Joan D'Arc.

In minutes, a line of French infantry braced themselves for the impending charge. Dots emerged out of the ridge and were immediately met with the bursts and pops of Allied small arms. Jaune was already loading in a new clip to replace the depleted cartridges pooling around his boots. Peering through his slit, he could see the bodies dropping all across the broken field, some disappearing into the craters they themselves carved up.

" _Ils sont ici, les Allemands_!" someone announced as he once again brought his rifle to bear.

Jaune's movements were automatic. He centered his sights on a mass in black uniform angling with his Mauser over a fallen log. In a rare moment, the infantryman was close enough to meet his steely gaze. Blonde hair, blue eyes. They looked the same. They all looked the same.

The German stood frozen in the middle of the battlefield, as though captivated by the look in his eyes. Jaune kept from firing to study his enemy. They were all the same. Boys younger than the legal age drafted to fight a war that was not theirs to begin with. Given a gun and told to kill the people on the other side because of...things.

A year ago, he would have deserted. And be shot for it.

A year ago, he would have hidden in a crater and cried. And be shot for it.

A year ago, he would have mustered the guts to shoot himself.

But that was a year ago. For all the things he had done since then, he doubted his own family, Ruby, or anyone for that matter could forgive him...if they ever found out, let alone found where he was. He was a different man, a boy no more. Right now, on this day in the bloodied fields of France, Corporal Ionas Arkos of the French Army, romanticized as Jaune Arc, snapped out of his musings and guiltlessly shot the German infantryman square in the face as more poured in behind him to try and seize their positions on the Marne.

* * *

"Isha, is there something the matter?"

Weiss blinked away from the glass at the mention of her nickname. She would have lied expertly through her teeth but she could bring herself to conceal any secrets from the family that she had grown to love and care for in this insane world. She spared a final glance at the soldiers milling about outside before turning from her window sill.

"Isha?"

"I...don't trust them," she answered carefully. For now, it was safe to speak in English. Her Russian was still rusty in some areas.

Anastasia tilted her head, her curiosity replaced with a worried look. "Oh. I see."

Weiss sighed. She could never get used to house arrest despite the long months she had spent in the company of the imprisoned. Revolution and civil war had torn apart this once glorious empire—the largest she had ever learned of to actually exist—and, through the irony of circumstance or perhaps even fate, she found herself in the service of the people who used to rule over it, now shackled to this mansion by an indignant government.

Those fanatical Bolsheviks painted them horribly while the loyalist Whites were too pandering with their praise. But when Weiss finally met Tsar Nicholas the Second and his family, all she could see was a man stripped of his power striving to care for his wife, children, and loyal retainers in the midst of a world that hated him and his whole house. Kind of like the father she never had.

Her mind wandered to where Winter could be, how she was doing, what she was doing. Her older sister would probably have thought her long dead by now. And her team...they were probably gone as well. She could have been more hopeful but after witnessing first and secondhand the horrors of this world, she found such hope futile and puerile. The atrocities of home were dwarfed by what mankind was capable of achieving in droves here.

"Isha."

Weiss snapped out of her thoughts at the touch of Anastasia's hand over her own. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"Don't."

"Pardon?"

"Don't," the grand duchess insisted. "You worry too much."

"But you yourself are equally suspicious about—"

"Isha." Anastasia cupped her hand in her own. "They only changed the guards. Don't think too much of it."

"Anya, these men are drastically different," the white-haired girl argued. "They've changed their shifts, they let us do anything rarely, and you know my Russian isn't that good. Also, that commandant of theirs..." She shuddered. "He doesn't like me."

"He doesn't like any of us."

"I know. So why the sudden changes?"

"Unless they thought we needed better security."

Weiss shook her head. "From what? Ourselves? Our last guards were very courteous." And sympathetic, she did not add.

Anastasia shrugged. Her seeming nonchalance and cheerful persona emerged with that smile that began to form on her lips. Much like Ruby except with Weiss's own maturity. "We may be prisoners but at least we're safe."

Weiss had a gut feeling that they were not. She wanted to voice her other concerns but the ever optimistic atmosphere that radiated from the grand duchess was too much. She hated to see Anastasia down. Even in these constrained times, the royal in peasant's clothing somehow found something to be grateful and cheerful for.

"How about you help me with my sewing," Anastasia started. "You need a distraction."

"I guess so." And Weiss Schnee, talented runaway daughter of some obscure German businessman, picked up a needle and thread while Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna poured diamonds and gemstones through a seam in her dress.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 16, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: July 17, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 16, 2018**

 **NOTE: I was left hanging by some good RWBY WW1 fics out there so I decided to write my own.**


	2. July 16, 1918

_July 16, 1918_

* * *

Jaune dropped into the trenches of the rear echelon with the bullets of his pursuers whizzing past his head. Amid the blue fabric of his comrades, he picked out the distinct khaki garb of their British allies.

"Hold the line!" screamed a British officer.

Jaune did not need a translator to comprehend the order. He knew English well before having to adopt French in order to fit in with his unit. Finding his place behind a barricade, he pushed the barrel of his rifle through a peephole and began firing at anything that moved.

So far, these Germans were relentless in their drive. Desperate and fanatic even. He had been forced to abandon his positions at the command of his superiors and fallen back alongside them. Regardless of the territory lost, he knew it would be the same dynamic all over again regardless of the 'changes' in tactics. Their assault would peter out and they would counter-attack along the same vein.

Jaune had heard it before. He had seen it happen. He had been an active participant in countless charges and retreats. At the Aisne and the Ypres rivers, against the shattered fortresses of Verdun. Indecisive battles where the only outcome was the same bloody stalemate they had started out with.

The fatigue from the never-ending fighting had long since overcome his resolve and his actions, though carried out with frenzy and foolhardy bravery, were out of a desire to survive. So when he saw the black dot fly over their heads, he already knew what it was before he heard bounce against the wooden planks behind him.

"Grenade!"

Jaune flung himself into the mud as far as he could. The blast followed quickly by another and another. The Germans had lobbed grenades into their trench and Jaune knew that they would be leaping in almost immediately after they had gone off.

So when he got back up, his ears still ringing, he felt a sharp pain lance into his side. Feeling under his armpit, he felt the rips in the thread of his uniform and the distinct sticky sensation of his own blood caking with the dirt. He was wounded. But still held onto his rifle and still able to fight. If only the same could be said for his comrades who were either dead or dying in the trench with him.

Jaune blinked and shook his head to clear away the blur. He staggered slightly, steadying himself against boxes of ammunition toppled by the blasts. By then, German stormtroopers dropped into their sector screaming.

" _Alemands_!"

"Fritz in the trenches!"

" _F_ _ü_ _r den Kaiser_!"

Jaune gripped his rifle, bayonet affixed an hour before the attack, counted the growing number of enemy troops pouring into their trench. His odds were against him. As always. Releasing a shrill battle cry, he charged at the man in the black and red-lined uniform five feet in front of him. Maybe this time, he could finally die, Aura be damned.

* * *

Weiss was having a modest dinner with the imperial family when Commander Yurovsky entered and announced something to all those present. It was in Russian and despite her grasp of the language, she still had yet to understand the deeper vocabulary. Nonetheless, she understood the base message: the kitchen boy left to meet with his family.

She caught the displeasure in the faces of Tsar Nicholas and Tsarina Alexandra. The four Romanov sisters shared worried looks while young Alexei appeared slightly sullen in his wheelchair.

Later that evening, she remembered why.

"Lyoshka is going to miss Lenya," Anastasia remarked as she brushed Weiss's hair.

"Yes. They were very fond playmates," she agreed. The kitchen boy, Leonid Sednev, had been the only remaining servant who resonated perfectly with the sickly prince. And now he had been sent away, probably never to return again barring Yurovsky's assurances.

Weiss never trusted the commander. She was not blind to the contexts behind these 'security developments' of his. More and more of their retinue was being taken away from them under the guise of pragmatism or added protection. For the love of all that was holy, they already had three hundred guards! None of whom proved beyond amiable to any one of them; most were either tolerant and blatantly aggrieved.

"When do you think he'd be back?"

Weiss refrained from saying that Sednev would never return. She bit her lip; she hated having to lie to Anastasia or any of the Romanovs even if to raise any false hopes they held on to.

"Never mind. You don't have to answer."

The white-haired girl turned behind her, catching Anastasia gazing off into the darkening skies outside her bedroom.

"Anya?"

"You know that I worry deep down. I would not want to see Lyoshka feeling lonely."

"He has you."

"Yes. But he needs friends like Lenya and Kolya." The grand duchess was frowning now. "It's boring, he says. I can already tell, you know. He's always been the center of attention and I don't mind but he needs to understand that we are his sisters. We care for him and his happiness. He's the Tsesarevich."

Weiss wanted to remind her that the royal title held little significance with the new government. Instead, she reached over and brushed her arm. "Anya, I know I have not been as close to your brother as I am with you. But I will try. For his sake and yours."

For a moment, Anastasia appeared conflicted. Then a smile slowly crept onto her cheeks. "That would be nice. You two have not really gotten along. He can't fence, you know. Especially now."

Weiss chuckled. "That is given. But I can teach him to think like one."

"A seated commander, eh? Perhaps play chess with the candles and the cutlery?"

"I like how you think," she complimented with a grin.

"Miss Schnee, you should never underestimate the creativity of a Romanov."

"I would like to indulge in that, madame."

For the next hour, the two continued to playfully banter how they could entertain the youngest member of the Romanov family. Their laughter even caused a passing guard to pause in the hallway and peek through the crack in their door, causing them to stop abruptly. He narrowed his gaze before he withdrew and continued his rounds.

"These men," Anastasia began quietly, "don't know how to have fun."

Weiss felt she needed to scold the grand duchess for making light of someone who could very well shoot them. But instead, she eased the door closed. "They get loud and drunk almost every night."

"True but not as bad as before."

And they continued to chat until Olga chimed in to remind them that it was getting late, leaving Weiss alone in her room while the grand duchess retreated to her sisters' quarters. The former heiress snuggled into her own bed, relieved and slightly excited to try out these new ideas for Alexei Nikolaevich. It was a good distraction from the worry and dread that had been mounting in the pit of her stomach since the day Commander Yurovsky arrived and tightened their restrictions.

* * *

Jaune had no idea how he was still alive after the mauling he had been through.

His mind was in one place while his body was in another. It was surreal. He could feel the wind brushing freely through his hair while something damp caked his cheeks. He raised his palm to his face to see a faint glow mending the cuts on his skin. He felt down to where the shrapnel had ripped through his side earlier. The gash was closing up. Staggering over the corpses in the ditch he had fought in, he soon found himself being shaken to his senses by a comrade.

" _Caporal_ Arkos! _Caporal_ Arkos!"

Jaune blinked, trying to register the panicked private gripping his sides.

" _Caporal_ Arkos! _Vous n'_ _ê_ _tes pas mort_!"

" _Comment_?" he mouthed.

" _Vous_ _ê_ _tes en vie_!"

Right. Jaune wiped his face with his hands, raising a bloody shovel over his head. He was not dead. He was still alive. He was still very much alive! The private offered him a fresh helmet and the feel of the cold curved steel on his bare fingers thrust him back into reality. Putting it on, he finally registered the dead surrounding him. He was lucky. His Aura saved him again.

Damn it.

"Hey!"

Jaune turned around to see a British infantryman running up to him. "Yes?"

"Excuse me, do you happen to be Corporal Ionas Arkos?"

"Yes."

"So...you're the man whom they call Forked Lightning, yeah?"

Forked Lightning. That was him, alright. Corporal Ionas ' _Foudre Fourchue_ ' Arkos, finest stormtrooper the French could offer whose lunatic bravery at Arras and Verdun earned him recognition beyond the borders of Europe. Jaune held bitter pride at his reputation but kept his mien neutral. His accomplishments were nothing celebratory, no matter how inflated they were for the sake of keeping morale high.

"Yes. What is it?"

"Fritz is pushing us back. We need men to fill our right flank."

Jaune was running on fumes. Already his mind was functioning like clockwork, his eyes scanning the on-going battle, his ears picking out the noise of men dying, his hands wiping clean the blood off his shovel.

"We need to go before they filter through!"

Picking up a rifle and stuffing his bandolier with the appropriate bullets, he and his fellow French soldiers rushed through the maze of trenches until they reached the breach in their lines occupied by German stormtroopers. The rest happened mechanically.

Jaune rushed in and fired twice. Then switched to his shovel. The rest of the melee was a brawl. He was lost in it. Lost in the action. Swing. Crunch. Smack. Crunch. Adrenaline frenzied him and he clamored over the top, his entrenching tool raised high over his head. He breathed deep amidst the wave of the Kaiser's best rushing over the terrain towards him.

" _Sur moi_! _Charge_!"

And Jaune led a counter-charge in the middle of a charge. Shovel in hand, throat ripping out a shrill battle cry. His legs carried him over the terrain, leaping over craters, swerving around debris. A bewildered assaulter stopped dead in his tracks long enough for the frenzied corporal close the distance and bat him in the head with his tool.

The poor bastard screamed as he kept pounding. Another came to his aid by thrusting his bayonet into his stomach. Jaune gripped the rifle, glaring fiercely at the horrified face of the battered German private inches from his own face then swiped him on the side of his head. Even with the Mauser awkwardly angling out of his gut, he straggled forward.

Whether it was the rush of battle pumping in his veins or his Aura being channeled into his wounds, Jaune was too caught up in the moment to hear the whistle from above until the artillery shell erupted too close for comfort. And the last thing Corporal Ionas Arkos saw before darkness enveloped him was the sky and the earth rushing back to meet him.

* * *

"Isha. Isha."

Weiss opened her eyes to see Anastasia holding her own lantern over her face. "Anya?"

"Isha, _nam nuzhno idti_."

"What?"

"We have to go now," Anastasia hissed.

"Why?"

"I don't know. But get dressed and follow me."

Weiss felt something was wrong. Getting out of bed, she quickly adorned her coat and slipped on her shoes, noting how Anya was clutching tight on the hem of her own gown, the same clothing hiding the remaining jewels of the Romanov family.

She followed the grand duchess out the hallway where Tatiana was patiently waiting. With a nod, the three wordlessly headed downstairs, regrouping with the rest of the imperial family alongside the family doctor, the cook, the maid, and the footman. Weiss completed the remaining retinue of the Romanovs, herself registered as a fencing tutor for the Tsar's children.

" _Horosho_ ," intoned Commander Yurovsky. A few more sentries flanked them as he gestured at the door that led to the basement. _"Vy vsye – za mnoy_."

Follow him? Downstairs?

Weiss felt the gut in her stomach pounding. Something was not right. She looked to Doctor Botkin, the physician himself shaking his head to show his cluelessness to the matter. The maid Miss Demidova held onto two pillows, of which Weiss had a hand in sowing in more of the imperial family's gemstones into.

The imperial family filed down the staircase after the commander, the white-haired girl falling in step with Mister Kharitonov and Mister Trupp, the cook and the manservant, who were more nervous than perplexed.

" _Chto proishodit_?" Weiss whispered.

Mister Trupp answered that they were being transported elsewhere. The abruptness meant that the Whites must be nearing. As reasonable as it sounded, Weiss could not dispense with the rising dread. Her heart started pounding as they gathered in the basement. She wove as close as she could towards Anastasia, touching her hand in the dark and squeezing. Anya beamed back at her through the dim lighting while her mother requested for some chairs for herself and Alexei.

As the two sat down, Weiss heard the commander say that a truck was on its way to transport move them out of Yekaterinburg. It was delivered almost flawlessly, in a manner that seemed...rehearsed. Her Russian was basic but she knew the inflections in his tone. The straight face, the stiff posture. Weiss felt her eyes bulge out of their sockets.

There was no truck. There were no encroaching Whites. They were not going anywhere.

When several soldiers filed into the room, each with a pistol in hand, Weiss felt her breath hitch in her throat; her grave fears materialized before her eyes. The Bolsheviks—

"Nikolai Aleksandrovich..."

—were finally going to execute them all.

"... _prodolzhayiut nastupleniye na Sovietskyuy Rossiyu_..."

They were given the order and now they were going to do what they have been itching to do for the longest time.

"... _reshil vas kaznit_."

" _Chto_? _Chto_?" Tsar Nicholas demanded.

Commander Yurovsky repeated the verdict and their executioners leveled their pistols.

It was then that Weiss lost control of herself. She loved this family. They were everything to her when her own world collapsed and burned. She poured out her heart and soul into passing on her knowledge to their children, training them to be fine fencers while they were still allowed to try. She even once sat down for coffee with the tsar and his wife while they voiced their woes. This was the family she wished she had. Trust, care, genuine affection. She was not going to let these deluded idiots rip her world apart again. She was not going to die!

She was Weiss Schnee, damn it! Daughter of Jacques and Willow Schnee, sister to Winter and Whitley Schnee. Former heiress to the Schnee Dust Company. Now tutor, assistant, and caring friend to the Romanovs. She was not going to let this happen!

"NO!"

"Isha!"

Letting go of Anya's hand, she stomped past the tsar to stand between him and the soldiers. The energy started to coalesce at the tips of her fingers, feeling for her Semblance after having not used it this extensively in so long. Weiss defiantly raised her palms as Yurovsky gave the order to fire.

And the basement suddenly filled with smoke.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 17, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: August 20, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 17, 2018**


	3. July 17, 1918

_July 17, 1918_

* * *

Jaune heard noise. Lots of noise. Muffled noise.

Shouting. Squelching on the mud. It was getting closer now. He could feel something worming around his body. On reflex, he twisted his head to which he was rewarded with jolts of pain surging up his neck and from his arms and legs. He tried to shift his weight but suddenly felt a light pressure on his chest. And then hands. Followed by yelling.

Hands heaved him out of the mud to lay him on his back. He finally opened his eyes, jaw snapping agape to breath. Slowly, his senses came back to him. Fire in his throat, burning in his pupils. Searing pain that made it hard to breathe.

" _Ici_ , _ici_!"

" _Médecin_!"

" _Il est vivant_!"

Jaune coughed and wheezed. One of the shadows overhead stooped down to wipe the dirt off his face. He tried to speak only to feel more dirt clogging up his throat. And he coughed again. Another shadow suddenly obscured his view of the darkening sky.

" _Où est le médecin_!?"

" _Je suis là_ , _je suis là_!"

The wounded corporal angled his head slightly to see the white arm band bearing a red cross. Someone was barking orders. Something about a stretcher. The rest was shrouded in a blur as he felt hands heave him off the ground. Soon, he was being carried passed scores of French and British infantry, some of whom stopped to gawk at him. He could even hear their murmurs.

"He's alive? How?"

" _C'est miraculeux_."

"Bloody hell, that's Forked Lightning. He's not dead yet?"

" _Il a survécu_! _Incroyable_."

Shortly, he was carefully transferred to a cot where another medic set to work unbuttoning his uniform. The cold air braced his exposed chest to which the administering physicians gasped in surprise. Jaune was confused at the sudden astonishment from the medics that began to surround him, one gesturing at the supposed gash in his stomach.

" _Mon Dieu_..."

" _Qu'est-ce_... _qu'est-ce que c'est_?"

What were they going on about? He was hurt, right? He was not dead? He was still in pain, he was sure. One of the men started to clean away the blood and the mud while a surgeon filtered through his tools. He wanted to ask them what happened. Whether or not the battle was still on-going. Had the Germans been pushed back? Who won? Who lost?

Jaune coughed until he could force out a few words. The surgeon shushed him and before any anesthetic could be administered, the corporal lost consciousness once again.

* * *

The smoke dissipated and all those present were left stunned at what they were witnessing in the basement of the Ipatiev House.

Hovering over the floor between the line of Bolshevik executioners and their intended victims was a large bright circular glyph. A pair of massive geometric snowflakes rotated endlessly similar to the inner workings of a clock.

" _Chto_?" stammered a very surprised Commander Yurovsky.

The bullets intended for the Romanovs were caught up in this blue web. Behind it, Weiss Schnee spread her arms and the glyph dissipated, the bullets dropping harmlessly to the floor.

" _K-kto eta devushka_?" asked a worried Bolshevik soldier, his pistol slacking in his grip.

"... Isha?"

Weiss acted quick, summoning two smaller glyphs on opposite sides of the room. The sudden appearance of these attractions distracted the soldiers who were suddenly pulled towards them, screaming and dropping their guns. They were held in place for a moment until she reversed her palms, throwing the men towards each other, some of them slamming directly into the other before crumpling onto the floor.

But she was not done. The former heiress stepped back to conjure a much larger glyph. Slowly, the uniformed men were dragged towards the circle. Weiss held them up until she could see the commander hanging in the air, eyes bugged with bewilderment.

"Isha?"

With a flick of her wrists, glowing blue turned to shimmering black and the Bolsheviks were hurled towards the other wall.

Weiss was panting by then. It had been over a year since she last resorted to her Semblance. Admittedly, regardless of what she had done, her skills atrophied. The lanterns discarded on the floor revealed the results. A dozen or so Bolshevik soldiers lay limp and groaning across from them, disarmed and immobilized.

"Isha?"

She turned around. Tsar Nicholas was agape with Tsarina Alexandra holding a vice grip onto his arm. Young Aleksei sat on his chair mesmerized, confused, and terrified. Maria, Olga, and Tatiana were as mortified as the imperial retinue. But Anastasia... Anya was...in awe? Pitiful?

Weiss did not think further ahead than preventing their deaths. So she did the next logical thing that came to mind. She hurriedly scooped up a pistol and leveled it at a pained and disoriented Commander Yurovsky. She whipped her head around, seeing none among the imperial family or their servants moving, still fearfully observing her.

" _Chto viy stoitye_?" Weiss hollered. " _Vozmite pistolet_!"

They each exchanged unsure looks though the Tsarina had this solid intense look on her. Weiss could guess what was going through the empress's mind but she did not care at that moment.

"Pick up a gun!"

Anastasia muscled out of her sisters' grips.

"Anya!"

" _Chto tiy delaesh_ , Anya!?"

The grand duchess stooped low and awkwardly cupped a revolver though she did not aim it anyone in particular. She nodded to Weiss then turned to her family. "She has a point. The others would have heard the noise happening down here."

Tsar Nicholas was about to throw a stern rebuke when Weiss cut him off. "We don't have time to argue! Our lives depend on it. We should escape while we still have the chance!"

"But how? Run through the snow?" retorted Maria.

"Your Highness," interjected Mister Trupp. "There was mention of a truck."

"A truck that was intended to dispose of our corpses," echoed Alexei.

"But they said it was on its way! With more soldiers, no doubt," whined Tatiana.

"Pardon, your Highness. If I may, I heard a vehicle outside awhile back. It should still be there," added Mister Kharitonov.

Weiss nodded. "Good enough. We could use it."

"I will drive," offered Mister Trupp.

"Each one of us should get a gun. To protect ourselves," the former heiress reiterated, ignoring the fact that the pistol was shaking in her grip. She looked down to see that Commander Yurovsky had snapped out of his daze and was glaring back up at her. She glared back.

" _Horosho_." Tsar Nicholas picked up a revolver and searched one of the unconscious men, coming off with a handful of extra rounds. He requested Doctor Botkin, Mister Kharitonov, and Mister Trupp to collect the rest of the weapons to which they obeyed, arming themselves and stuffing the rest into whatever pockets they had. Then he turned to the white-haired girl and tipped his cap. "Thank you, Isha."

"With all due respect, sir, now is not the time," she countered. "I know you all have questions. But first, we should leave."

Tsar Nicholas gestured at the staircase. "Lead the way."

Weiss blinked. Then looked from one person to the next. The gravity of this responsibility quickly weighed down her shoulders and she nearly slackened. Long ago, she coveted leadership. Right now, she wanted to give it up. One mistake and it would cost any one of them their lives.

"Isha." Anya nudged her elbow. "Lead the way."

The former heiress shut her eyes and swallowed. This was what she had been training for. Breathing deep, she spared a final glance at a very indignant Yurovsky before picking up the lantern he had been holding and heading up the steps.

* * *

They could hear more voices outside the house, all drunk, talking over the whir of a vehicle engine. Weiss gestured at her entourage to crouch though she grimaced at how Maria and Tatiana had to help Aleksei bend his knees so as not to expose his head above the window sill.

Pistol kept ahead of her, as she had learned and observed from the many soldiers she had been around, Weiss inched towards the backdoor, creaking it aside and coming into view of the troupe of lightly armed Bolshevik troops staggering around a running Fiat. Clearly intoxicated. The closest one spotted them at the doorway and tried to stand at attention.

"Oy! _Tovarisch komandir_ , _oni mertvy_?"

Were they dead? Yeah, sure. Run with it. Apparently, they were too drunk to tell the difference. Except for one of them who nearly fell on his rear.

" _Nyet_ , _nyet_. Romanovy! _Vot oni_!"

"Eh? _Ya dumal ih ubili_."

" _Chyort_! _Ogon_! _Ogon_!"

Weiss quickly exploited the confusion and drew on muscle memory once again. Right hand wielding the pistol, left straightened behind her. It had been so long since she had resorted to these skills, the only differences being that she was void of any Dust and wielding a shoddy handgun in place of Myrtenaster. That and she was in flat doll shoes instead of the heels that she had trained and conditioned herself with.

Glyph materializing behind her, she leapt and bounced off it, springing towards the guards at the speed of an arrow. And whipped them aside with the butt of her pistol. Quick succession. Leap, strike, swipe, land, rinse, repeat. By the time she circled the truck, the men were all unmoving on the ground. She unclasped the hooks on the panel to reveal the empty flatbed, doubtless meant to hold their cadavers.

"Everyone get in!" she hollered. " _Gospodin_ Trupp! Please, take the wheel."

Weiss gripped the bumper as the imperial family clamored onto the back together with Miss Demidova and Doctor Botkin while Mister Trupp and Mister Kharitonov rushed to the front. She felt the physician's hand over her own. Apparently, she had been gripping hard.

"Isha. Are you alright?"

" _Da_ , _da_... I...I'm fine." She was not. She remembered the consequences of her atrophy. She had not used her Semblance this extensively in so long. Her body was reacting to it now. Her Aura was probably fluctuating from all the exertion. A wise decision would be to sit and rest. A wiser decision was to leave now. Because the noise from her fight had roused the rest of the garrison if all the shouting and hovering lanterns were any indications.

Weiss felt herself being hauled up. She landed on her back as the truck lumbered out the yard. It was dim inside the back of the vehicle with only a couple of handheld oil lamps to provide light. She could see Anya's worry-laden face, hovering over hers.

"A-anya?" she croaked.

"You're fine, Isha! You're fine!"

Weiss 'Isha' Schnee blacked out for the rest of the Romanovs' miraculous escape from Bolshevik hands.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 18, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: July 21, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 19, 2018**

 **NOTE: Anybody speak fluent French or Russian out there?**


	4. July 21, 1918

**NOTE: Thanks to _NoliVerga_ and _Pinkpower3612_ for the proper translations.**

* * *

 _July 21, 1918_

* * *

Weiss shifted against the sheets. So warm. So dry. So...unfamiliar.

Wait. What?

She bolted awake. The room was indeed unfamiliar. This was not her bed; this was a different room. Her window did not show much, only distant canopies and sky. A tin cup stewed on the bedside table. She made to get out of bed only to feel her Aura fluctuate. It felt like a contraction that spread throughout her body and she flopped back onto the mattress, half buried in three blankets.

"Isha?"

Weiss sat up slowly, the pain easing away. "Anya?"

Anastasia, clad in a simpler dress underneath a kerchief and a thick coat, set aside her book and embraced her. Warm tears soaked the fabric of her blouse. "Isha! Isha, you're awake!"

The white-haired girl slowly pulled away. "Anya, what happened?"

"We escaped." The grand duchess sported a moist grin. White teeth baring joy and relief. "We escaped! Thanks to you, we escaped! You saved us, Isha!"

Weiss wanted to smile but still felt a little tired. "I...I had to do...what needed to be done."

"What you did...I don't care if it was the Devil's magic but God used you to save us."

Devil's magic. Of course. Another great fear and one of the biggest reasons why she had to conceal her Aura and Semblance to the point of atrophy. A display of such things and she was either an angel from the heavens or a heretic practicing witchcraft. Most likely the latter.

Weiss carefully worded her inquiry. "Anya...how is your mother?"

"Mother? She..." Then the light radiating from the grand duchess dimmed. "She is coping well. She...is still trying to accept you."

"I see."

She swooped in close to cup her hands in her own. "But don't worry! We've been talking about it with her and she is, ah, warming up?"

"And your father?"

She smiled. "Father understands."

"Where are we?"

Anya gestured to the calm forest outside the window. "We are here in Perm. Doctor Botkin has friends among the local populace. One of them, _Gospodin_ Dverko, is sheltering us here in his lodge. It is on a plot of land that was given to him by the Bolsheviks. And they never check. Ironic."

"How long have we been staying here?"

"A few days." Anya pulled the chair to sit beside the bed. "There is news that Admiral Kolchak and the Czechs are coming to save us."

Weiss raised her brow. Regardless of Kolchak's successes, she still had her doubts about the admiral. Word of his troops' conduct in their march did not instill much confidence in her about his administrative capabilities. "Do they even know that we've escaped?"

"Well...the plan is to return to Yekaterinburg when it is safe. Hopefully, the admiral would be there."

"You don't sound too sure."

Anya exhaled. "Because we cannot be sure. They are still on the march from what we have heard and it would take some time for them to reach us."

Weiss racked her brain for the other Whites. "What about General Yudenich?"

"We have not heard much."

"General Denikin? General Wrangel?"

"Information is sparse. We mostly hear rumors and very little confirmed reports. Father is very aloof about it."

Weiss slumped. With her Aura stabilized, she could finally move about on her own, assisting as best she can. She eased out of bed. "Anya. How safe are we?"

"I trust _Gospodin_ Dverko," the grand duchess intoned. "He despises the Bolsheviks and has kept away the patrols."

It would only be a matter of time, the former heiress wanted to quip.

Sensing her Aura stabilized, she stood and walked around, the cold floor having no effect on her bare feet. She stretched her limbs to regulate the blood flow until she finally peeked through the glass of her bedroom window. Down below was an open meadow, now partially blanketed by patches of snow. Towering pines painted the horizon, partially concealing the buildings of a small town. Perm.

"Where is the rest?" Weiss asked.

"Downstairs. There is not much to do."

"How is Lyoshka?"

Anya smiled a sad smile. "He is not feeling well. The cold is getting to him."

"I see."

"He has been keeping busy. He tries."

"He shouldn't strain himself."

"I know." Anya opened the door and guided her downstairs.

Most of the house was modest. A carpet here, some rugs there. Dull but functional furniture. And most everyone huddled around the fireplace where Tsar Nicholas had just finished adjusting the logs. He turned and greeted her with a warm smile.

"Isha! So good to see you alive and well. Come, sit." He motioned to a small chair cushioned by a blanket. Next to Lyoshka who was sitting close to his mother.

Out of the smiles that greeted her, Weiss could tell that Tsaritsa Alexandra was the least sincere. That stiff lower lip betrayed her facade. She could tell. She practically grew up with it. As she snuggled into the chair, she noticed how most everyone had fallen silent. She stared at the fire and could practically feel their gazes boring a hole in the back of her head.

After a while, she sighed. "I know you have questions." Taking another deep breath, she turned around to face her interrogators. "Ask away."

* * *

Weiss knocked twice on the door to one of the guest bedrooms.

"Who is it?"

"It's me. Isha."

Silence. She contemplated knocking again before the door opened. Tsaritsa Alexandra held her chin high even as she stepped aside to let her in.

Weiss saw Alexei sitting on the bed and almost immediately wanted to backtrack into the living room. If ever she this was going to go badly, she did not want the sickly young prince to bear witness to it. Hemophilia, revolution, house arrest, and a narrow escape from execution was bad enough. She did not want to add any domestic arguments to the growing list of stress for the poor lad.

"Sit."

It came off as more of an order than a request. Weiss took her place on a stool in the corner of the room. She found it difficult to maintain her attention on the empress who by now had closed the door. It felt so much like a witch trial.

"Your 'glyphs,'" Tsaritsa Alexandra began coolly. "They do not bear any markings of the occult. At least...none that I am aware of."

"Mama," Alexei interjected. "Please do not be too hard on her."

The empress took a deep breath. "Alyosha, please. I only want to be assured."

"I do not dabble in any witchcraft or any of the sort," Weiss objected prematurely.

"Yes. You would say that," Tsaritsa Alexandra continued. "I placed my trust and faith in you, young lady. In the same manner that I have with Grigori Rasputin and the many men before him. I believe in God and I believed that he was a holy man who could heal my son."

For his part, Alexei remained impassive, curiously eying the exchange though Weiss read the pity and concern for her.

"You have been a part of our family for a year. You tutored my daughters in swordsmanship. You gave us your ear at Tobolsk. You never left our side. You have cared for us, loyally and faithfully as would a servant." The empress paused and Weiss could feel the hammer of judgment coming down. "So why then have you kept this from us?"

Come again? "... Pardon?"

Tsarina Alexandra nearly flared. "Why have you kept these secrets from us? Were you afraid?"

"I...I was. I was afraid." Weiss gripped her dress. "I was afraid of you."

Silence.

"Isha."

"I'm not a demon spawn. I'm not a faith healer. I'm not a mystic. I'm not even an angel no matter how many times I've been told I was. I'm a human being who's afraid of being rejected." Tears dropped to her palms and seeped into the silk of her dress. "My father has probably disowned me by now. My siblings believe I'm dead. And my own mother..."

"Isha."

"I had friends. We were very close. Through thick and thin, we were together...supporting each other. And then our school was attacked...and...I saw my friends getting hurt...some died in the fighting..." Whatever composure she had left broke and the rest of her tears inundated her cheeks. "We tried our best...but..."

"Isha."

Weiss shook her head. "I have no one left."

"Isha. You have us," Alexei said. "You saved us. For that, we are always grateful."

"Yes," Tsarina Alexandra agreed softly. She knelt before the white-haired girl. "Isha. Am I that...terrifying to you?"

"I've seen and heard what they do to heretics," Weiss answered sheepishly. In truth, she had witnessed the public executions of those accused by the Bolsheviks for a myriad of offenses before she was 'rescued' by the Whites. It was not much different to how they prosecuted those guilty of practicing pagan rituals.

"I admit I have had my reservations."

"I care for this family. I care for Anya and Lyoshka. I care for you."

"I can see that," the empress answered evenly. "You have used your powers to save our lives. You have used your...given talents...for good."

"So you practice magic?" piped Alexei.

Weiss nearly chuckled. "No, Lyoshka. It is an inherent ability. I'm not even good at it yet."

"Then take the time to practice," intoned Tsarina Alexandra as stood and held out her hand. "Practice safely."

The white-haired girl wiped her face clean then adopted the classic prim and proper pose iconic of a Schnee, allowing herself to be helped to her feet. "I will, your Highness."

"No need for the title."

Weiss smiled. " _Da_ , Alexandra."

"Alexandra Fedorovna," corrected the empress.

* * *

Weiss was looking for a secluded space in the lodge to begin practicing her Semblance when she stumbled upon the garage in the rear annex. It was there where she found the Fiat they escaped in, riddled with bullet holes. Tsar Nicholas was wiping his hands clean on a rag hanging off the post while Mister Krupp inspected the engine which so far appeared unscathed.

"Isha," they greeted.

Weiss nodded politely. "Nikolay Alexandrovich. Alexei Yegorovich. Sorry to bother you."

"No, no. Come, sit," goaded the tsar, offering a stool. "So you have...conversed with my wife."

She bit her lip. "We have come to a mutual understanding of each other."

He smiled warmly. "That is good to hear."

"So...is this still in working condition?"

"It still runs. Most of the damage is in the back. Should we have to escape once again, this will give us considerable distance from the cavalry."

Weiss let the moment pass in silence before asking, "I heard that Admiral Kolchak is on his way."

Tsar Nicholas hummed in agreement. "Yes. I am aware."

"... Would you be willing to take up the reins if they returned you to the throne?"

A sigh. "I was advised to abdicate. I fear I would be doing more harm than good if I were to be restored to power."

"You still have strong support."

"For the Romanovs or for the nearest alternatives to the Bolsheviks?" Tsar Nicholas wore a sad smile. "I admire your optimism, Isha. But I have come to realize that the Russian people...have made their minds. I cannot change their decision even if I have an army willing to obey my orders. I have tried it before. It was a mistake."

"But if Admiral Kolchak would insist—"

"Then I will decline."

Weiss could feel the defeat. The tsar, it seemed, resigned to accept what he had become in the eyes of his former subjects. It was tragic. Thinking back, if she had not intervened, their execution would have been the final nail in the coffin for the Russian monarchy. "Nikolay Aleksandrovich, forgive me for my honesty. I question some of your administrative decisions but I still hold you as a good man."

"Thank you, Isha. And you are a remarkable young lady." He chuckled lightly. "With these magical 'glyphs' and...aurum?"

"Aura." Her eyes darted around the garage. Mister Trupp was busying himself with dissecting the motor engine; he reminded her a bit of her own family butler, Klein Sieben. How she missed him. Seeing no one else, she turned back to the tsar. "If you're not going to lead the Whites...what are you going to do when this is all over?"

"Retire to calmer lands. We have made many appeals for asylum. None would want to take us."

"If the Whites were to win..."

"I know where this discussion is going, Isha." Tsar Nicholas sat down beside her with a distant expression on his face. "Wherever God will take us, I will ensure the utmost care for my family. That is all I am concerning myself with at this time." He clapped her on the shoulder. "It brings me joy that you have made peace with Alix. She can be difficult to deal with at times."

"She is shy."

"Yes. She is."

"Thank you, Nikolay Alexandrovich." Weiss breathed deep. She had no other way of wording this. "You have been the father that I lacked."

"Isha."

"I saved you because you have been my only family in this world." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I have no one else."

Proving that the monarch was not as bloody as the public decried, Tsar Nicholas took her in a brief paternal embrace. "I thank God that you have come into our world." Then he mirthfully ruffled her hair. "Certainly better than Rasputin."

Weiss feigned a scowl. She raised her hand and a glyph shimmered into existence above her palm, startling the regent and his footman who nearly fell off the front bumper of the truck. She had to stifle a chuckle. "I'm sorry. I needed to practice. It has been a while, after all."

Mister Trupp raised a brow as the tsar chuckled.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 19, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: July 22, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 22, 2018**


	5. July 23, 1918

_July 23, 1918_

* * *

Jaune awoke to a cream-colored ceiling illuminated by dangling fluorescent lamps.

Something tight wound around his midsection and he angled down to see his abdomen covered in bandages. A paper box sat on his bedside table. Around him were unoccupied infirmary beds. It appeared he was the only patient today. Or rather, the only person in the ward. No nurse, no staff.

He reached down to his stomach to feel for the wounds that were grievous enough to send him this far from the front lines. He pressed his fingers against against the bandages, searching for the gash. Nothing. He reached around to his ribs. No injury.

With a sigh, he fell back onto his pillow. His Aura saved him again.

Once again, he was denied death. Damn it. Frustrating as it was, he yearned to know. What happened? How long had he been out? How did the battle turn out? Who won? Is the war over?

Boots clicked against the floor as the doors clicked shut.

Jaune turned his head and was greeted by the commanding officer of his company Captain Émile Causson accompanied by his British counterpart. He sat up on his bunk with a wince.

"At ease, young man," greeted the British officer.

" _Caporal_ Arkos, _je vous pr_ _é_ _sente_ _Capitaine_ Wilfred Hillard," introduced Causson.

Hillard beamed at him, unfazed by the empty stare the corporal mustered in return. He stretched out his hand which Jaune shook awkwardly. "I have heard much about you, Corporal Arkos. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine, sir," Jaune answered evenly.

"Congratulations, by the way," he added.

"For what, sir?"

Causson opened the box on the table to reveal a silver and gold medal sitting atop a folded yellow ribbon. " _Une autre m_ _é_ _daille_ _à_ _votre nom_ , Jaune. _F_ _é_ _licitations._ "

Jaune's confusion was quickly replaced with a mix of surprise and disappointment. Surprise that he had just been awarded one of the highest decorations in all of France: the Military Medal. Disappointment in the fact that he was now an even bigger celebrity among the Allies. Though that would likewise make him a welcoming target for the enemy...if he were ever put back in the field.

"I...am honored," he finally croaked.

"Three citations for the _Croix de Guerre_ and finally a _M_ _é_ _daille Militaire_ ," Hillard echoed with a nod. "All in less than a year. Young man, if you had earned those colors at the start of the war, I would have expected an overwhelming confidence swelled by rightful pride. However, it has already been four long years. I can understand how hollow this must all come off to you."

"I mean do disrespect, sir," Jaune salvaged. He really didn't. Countless patriotic soldiers lusted for this kind of recognition. Though, in honesty, he only saw these medals as nothing more than added weight in his pockets. Besides, who would care for an eighteen-year-old boy from 'Greece' sharing a piece of carved silver with twenty thousand other soldiers? Especially when he had no home to return to, no one to recognize him when all the luster from his being a 'war hero' would fade away.

"None taken. Though I'm not so sure about Captain Causson here."

" _C'est pas grave_." Though the French commander let a small frown escape his mien. "You have earned it, Jaune. We can have it sent home to your immediate family—"

"That..." Jaune cut in. "That would not be necessary, sir. I would like to keep it with my things."

"Are you sure?"

Hillard, now seated on the unused bed across from him, leaned back slightly. "Sentimentality, I believe."

The corporal nodded. Other than claiming that he was an immigrant from Greece, he had no other alibi. Dropping into France in the middle of a 'Great War?' Bad enough. Swept up among a tide of draftees? Much worse. Getting lucky on the bogus paperwork based on what little he knew of Europe? A crime punishable by death. Becoming famous on a false identity? A tarnished legacy beyond his grave...if he were ever given one, let alone have something left to bury.

"You are from Greece, are you not?" inquired the British captain.

Jaune resisted the urge to gulp. "Yes."

"Athens?"

"... Yes." He had no idea where Athens was but knew that it was the capital of that country.

"Your English is near flawless, if you don't mind me saying."

"... I have been told, yes." In his mind, Jaune was panicking. He could feign amnesia but doubted how effective that would be in the face of this inquisitive officer.

"Do indulge me," Hillard pressed with an interrogative smile. "How do you find France?"

Was this a trick question? And why was Causson being so lenient with this questioning? Was he in on this as well? Were they onto him? Did they finally catch onto his falsehoods? "Lovely in peacetime."

"Where have you studied?"

Beacon. " _Acad_ _é_ _mie de Paris_."

"What did you take up there?"

Huntsman training. "Humanities."

"What was it like?"

Failure, failure, and more miserable failure. "Insightful. I learned much."

"Indeed," Hillard agreed coyly. "A shame that much of what you have learned is proving to be of little use in this conflict, wouldn't you agree?"

Jaune nodded slowly.

"Shame how a learned man such as yourself has been found in this predicament. Unavoidable. Do you have any other plans should your service end?"

"Not much, really." That was an honest answer.

"Perhaps continue your studies?"

"Maybe." Not likely.

"What would you have intended to become had you not been drawn into this conflict?"

A Huntsman, a hero, a noble guardian against criminals and the Grimm. "... A teacher."

The British officer smirked. "A modest goal in life, eh? Tell me, Corporal. Do you find yourself very fortunate?"

Was he? Jaune could say that he was. Compared to everyone else on this godforsaken world, he was the only one with Aura. And if they were going to question him about how he survived multiple grievous injuries, he would feign ignorance. "I...don't know."

Hillard was silent. His dark charcoal eyes bore into him, as though he was mentally picking him apart piece by piece, scrutinizing every detail for the faintest slip. The pressure made Jaune fidget.

"You are a lucky man, Jaune," Causson started in an almost fatherly tone. "I am grateful to have had you in my regiment. Your gallantry at Ypres and Verdun inspires the men, even myself. Never have I heard or seen such bravery against the odds. This war has made you a formidable weapon not only through firepower but also through words."

"Forked Lightning," added Hillard. "A name that has put the fear of God into the hearts and minds of the Kaiser's hardiest."

Jaune could easily tell this was flavor. In truth, he was desperately afraid at Arras and depressingly suicidal by the time he was rotated into Ypres. All that 'gallantry' was nothing but a rising disregard of self-care and an eagerness to end it all.

Causson continued. "Had we not loosened our restrictions, you would have been among the finest in the _L_ _é_ _gion_ _É_ _trang_ _è_ _re_."

"I am more amazed you chose our lovely poppy fields here instead of the more homely mountains of the Balkans," his British counterpart chimed. "A native Greek like yourself would be itching to give the Bulgarians a bloody nose, eh? But I digress."

"I envy your fortune. Wounded countless times and yet you miraculously recover to fight another day."

"Rumor has it you have a guardian angel looking over you."

The corporal nearly scoffed at that. The next words Hillard uttered, however, nearly caused his heart to stop beating.

"Would believe it, Émile? An open wound miraculously sealing up by itself before the surgery would begin?"

"Under a glow of light, _je connais_. I have handled the reports."

Jaune glanced away. No way was this a casual conversation. They were definitely onto him. He shared his secret once—once!—to his old squadron a year ago at Ypres. Fellow teenaged draftees who reminded him so much of Ren, Nora, and...Pyrrha. Curious and pledging to keep it between themselves. Then they were all ordered into a futile charge that left him the sole survivor. He never opened up to anyone else since.

But now his own Aura exposed him. Nearly exposed him. People would think he was invincible! And that, he considered, was detrimental in a world whose farthest advancement in modern medicine was short of antibiotics. He would be studied, dissected like a specimen, thrust into the fore as a weapon. Death would be preferable over a life as a reusable tool instead of a human being. He needed to keep this a secret. So he asked, "What happened? How long was I out?"

"You have been comatose for six days. I almost thought you would not wake up," replied Causson.

Six days? A lot can happen in less than twenty-four hours! What happened!? What happened to his comrades at the front!? "The battle! What—"

The French officer answered quickly. "The German attack has faltered. We are pushing them back across the Marne. You have done your part, Jaune."

Done his part? Oh, it was the going to be the same spiel all over again. "I see."

"You have earned your rest. An offensive is in the works to exploit our successes here."

He chuckled bitterly. "Oh, that's just dandy. I believe you're here to tell me that I'm going to be sent back to the front to reinforce this offensive. Maybe lead my own unit as a sergeant or some other."

Jaune did not look up, expecting the same offer he declined countless times: 'You have served the Republic well and you deserve a promotion.' He was neither interested in an officer's commission nor eager to mantle another leadership role. He clearly failed his last and this war was his eternal damnation, doomed to make friends and be powerless as they were ripped apart on the front before his very eyes.

The moment passed without rebuke or rebuttal. Jaune curiously leveled his gaze at the officers who appeared unmoved by his retort. Causson then nodded at Hillard to which the latter said, "Corporal Arkos... Mind if I call you Jaune?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Very well." The British officer crossed his legs and raised his chin in a manner of omniscient authority that reminded him of a certain headmaster. "Jaune. I will not deny that you will be returned to the front. However, you would not be facing the Germans or their allies this time around."

"Is that so?" This time around? What did he mean by that? "You want me to hunt deserters or something?"

"No," Causson interjected. "You are too aggressive for that."

"Which is why you are needed elsewhere." Hillard beamed in a way that made Jaune uneasy. "You are coming with us to Russia."

For a while, the corporal was a little too stunned to speak. "... Russia? I thought they pulled out of the war."

"And left us in a very detrimental position. Consider this an effort to rectify that problem."

"We are hoping the Russian plains would be easier on you," Causson reasoned. "A man of your skills and fortune would be more serviceable there."

Hillard folded his arms. "I am sure you have heard of the Bolsheviks. Nasty lot. Wouldn't want them compounding our issues now, would we?"

"We're fighting the Russians now?" the blonde young man nearly spat. Germans, Austro-Hungarians, Turks. Now the Russians? It seemed fate was turning more of the whole world over its head.

"A little too early to say. You would not mind the cold, would you?"

"... No."

The British captain sported a satisfactory grin. "Honored to have you on board with us, Jaune. We will provide you with further details upon your discharge tomorrow."

Jaune exhaled. A new campaign in a new part of the world. Spectacular. "I'm guessing this is some special mission to do something? Is that why I was handpicked?"

Hillard appeared tickled. "Astute. Yes. You, Émile, and myself have been assigned to this endeavor. If you ask me, the Russian plains would be a welcoming relief from this bloody maze that we've dug ourselves in."

"So...we're going to burn down Saint Petersburg, sir?"

Causson raised a brow while Hillard seemed bemused. "Hopefully not," the latter answered as they departed. "More of an...early winter vacation in the lovely port town of Archangel."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 20, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: August 20, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 24, 2018**


	6. July 25, 1918

_July 25, 1918_

* * *

From the window of her room, Weiss followed the bushy form of the covert monarchist Mister Semyon Dverko rushing down the muddy trail towards the lodge. She was met outside her room by Anastasia and Maria and the three collectively hurried downstairs, stopping halfway at the sight of the peasant farmer panting and speaking in rapid Russian before the tsar and his servants.

Weiss read the expressions around the room: Tsar Nicholas's grim demeanor; the batting glances between Mister Krupp, Mister Kharitonov, and Doctor Botkin; Miss Demidova going pale.

"Papa, what is happening?" asked Maria.

"Gather your belongings," the tsar instructed. "We are leaving."

"To where?" repeated Anastasia. "Papa, _chto proishodit_?"

As if to answer her query, distant shouts echoed from behind the tree line. Mister Dverko pressed against the window in a panic. From where she stood, Weiss could see the silhouettes of men straggling through the woods, multiplying over the plain. Their rifles were the first distinguishable features other than their dark coats. Compounding her rising fears were the cavalry suddenly galloping shortly behind.

" _Bolzheviki_ ," breathed Mister Dverko.

"What!? What are they doing here?" Weiss demanded.

"They are retreating from Yekaterinburg, _freylina_!"

"They are retreating in good order towards us," echoed the tsar. He gestured at Mister Krupp who nodded and bolted through the kitchen to the garage. "Everyone hurry. We have to leave now!"

Weiss backed up the stairs and ran into her room to gather some clothes, the only things she had to her name. Slipping on a pair of work boots that coincidentally fit her size, she weaved through the corridor, almost colliding into the empress rushing out of her quarters.

"Alexandra Fedorovna!"

"Isha!" The tsaritsa glanced back inside and then grabbed her hand. "Help me with Alyosha."

"I saw soldiers coming out of the forest," remarked Alexei as Weiss snaked her arm behind his shoulders and carefully hoisted him to stand.

"We have to go now," the white-haired girl assured.

"We are going back to Yekaterinburg?"

Weiss grunted. "Even if Admiral Kolchak himself is in the city, I would not risk squeezing through an enemy army."

Olga appeared in the doorway and the former heiress immediately handed her her spare clothes. They made it down to the garage where the rest of the imperial family and their retinue had gathered. Mister Trupp sat behind the wheel, warming up the engine, while Mister Kharitonov and Doctor Botkin gestured at them from behind the truck. Mister Dverko pressed his ears against the still unopened double doors.

Muffled voices echoed through.

" _Tovarischi_! _Ya slyshu avtomobil_!"

" _Da_ , _da_! _U menya tozhe_."

More voices filtered through the cracks, compounded by footsteps, gallops, and neighing horses. Weiss guessed that this Red Army battalion was not going to leave this house untouched; she could hear more soldiers surrounding the premises.

"They are directly outside," whispered Doctor Botkin as he helped Alyosha onto the covered flatbed.

"Do we have a plan?" she asked.

He shook his head. Beside him, Miss Demidova was silently praying while the Romanov sisters ensured the best comforts for Alexei. Everyone knew their chances. They still had the guns they carried from the Ipatiev House, most of which were kept in a wooden box Tatiana was sitting on. The tsar managed a brave face as he comforted his wife. They all hoped for a miracle. And damn it, Weiss will manifest that miracle.

"Stay here," she instructed to the group as she dropped off the back and stomped to the front.

"Isha?"

"Isha, wait," Tsar Nicholas called out too late. He bounded after her.

" _Freylina_!" hissed Mister Dverko. "Your Highness! Stay back!"

Weiss glanced behind her, her hands spread out as the familiar glow of her Aura engulfed the tips of her fingers. The tsar stiffened, nodded slowly, then backed behind the truck. He waved at Mister Dverko to stand aside.

" _Chto_?"

The white-haired girl gave him a look that made him back up to the passenger side of the vehicle.

The doors buckled and began to ease open. Weiss touched the space before her and a massive glyph forced the doors back shut much to the sudden surprise of the Bolsheviks outside. The shouting became more intense until she could hear the noise of several men heaving against it.

" _Gospodin_ Dverko!"

" _F-freylina_?"

" _Popadi v avtomobilye_."

The farmer nodded nervously while clamoring into the front beside an equally nervous Mister Trupp.

" _Gospodin_ Trupp!"

" _Da_ , Isha?"

Weiss heard horses galloping up close to the men outside. She steeled her resolve—she had no gun on her person now—and ordered, "Drive on my count."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You are in the way."

"Just do it!" She took another deep breath. "One. Two..."

The Bolsheviks started shooting at the hinges.

"Three!" Weiss flicked her fingers and the doors burst outward, sending splinters, debris, and bewildered Red Army soldiers flying into the cavalry waiting behind them. She heard the weight on the accelerator and tapped into her training.

Glyphs here and there, below her, before her. Her body darting at superhuman speeds. Startled Bolshevik troops tossed in the air, frenzied horses throwing off their riders, the Fiat truck bounding through the open plains onto the road.

Some of the rear echelon troops started firing in their direction. Though wildly. Weiss flinched at the strain on her muscles as she dodged bullets. She conjured up a succession of smaller glyphs to shield herself and the vehicle which was bogging down in the mud. She heard louder pops from behind her and witnessed a panicked Mister Dverko firing back at the Red Army with a concealed revolver.

Weiss leapt onto the hood of the truck, keeping her balance and startling the monarchist. "Where are we headed?"

"West! To the west!"

"Where!?"

"Arkhangelsk!"

That was all way in the frozen north! She was going to demand why but decided against interrogation in the middle of an engagement. A bullet zipped past her head and she swung to the side of the truck until she landed on the rear bumper, eliciting surprised yelps from the occupants.

"Isha!?"

"Isha! What are you doing!?"

Weiss ignored them as she glanced down. The road was saturated by the oncoming winter which meant freezing mud. The deep tracts showed that the truck's wheels would soon get stuck in the soil if it kept up on the path. Whipping her head around, she hollered, "Everyone! Hold on to something solid!"

She swung one leg inside to hook herself against the back panel and raised her hands again. The vehicle was slowing to a stop. Weiss channeled as much Aura as she could muster into the black glyph growing at the edges of her palms.

In the distance, some of the Red Army soldiers pouring out of the woods lowered their guns in confusion. That was when she released her hold on the glyph.

And the truck bounded through the open plains at a speed that would have overtaken a modern car in Vale.

* * *

The snowy pine forests of Northern Russia held a dreadful mystique that enraptured Weiss. So much so that she realized she had been meditating in the middle of a small glen for the past several minutes. She was recovering more and more of her suppressed Aura and her glyphs becoming more easier to manage though her limbs still ached from the fatigue.

" _Freylina_ Schnee?"

Weiss exhaled and turned on her heels in the snow. If she had been around when the monarchy was still in place, she might have indeed been appointed as a _freylina_ , a lady-in-waiting. "Yes, Semyon Klementovich?"

Semyon Klementovich Dverko nervously stood behind a tree. She understood why; it was pretty much the reaction she expected from a peasant—she found the word distasteful despite its common usage—living in a world where Dust, Aura, and Semblances were akin to the works of the gods. "It is getting late. You must return to the campsite. We have food."

"Yes. I know."

"Are you not cold?"

Being a native Atlesian had its quirks. "I'm fine." She retrieved her fur coat off a dangling branch—the warmest article of clothing she salvaged from the lodge—and trudged up to the embankment he was standing on. "Tell me. Why Arkhangelsk?"

He cleared his throat. "We have plans there."

Weiss frowned. "You are more clever than you look. How do I know you are not some Bolshevik double-agent?"

The man threw his hands in the air. " _Nyet_! _Nyet_! _Pozhaluysto_ , _freylina_! I serve the Russian throne and no one else!"

"Then why Arkhangelsk? Why are you taking us to another Bolshevik stronghold?"

Mister Dverko seemed to ease a little, a more determined glint flashing in his eyes. "It will not belong to the Bolsheviks for long."

"Come again?"

" _Freylina_ , we have been making plans with the British. Our leader there, _Komandir_ Chaplin, is going to overthrow the local Bolshevik government. Then the Allies can use the ports there to land their soldiers and support our cause."

The plan seemed ambitious. Weiss was inclined to disbelieve it then again, she had seen, heard, and herself experienced far more outlandish campaigns. If the Allied Powers were going to be this involved in the civil war, then that would open doors for escape outside of Russia...assuming circumstances were favorable.

"Do the British know about the tsar?"

Mister Dverko shook his head. " _Izvinitye_ , I do not know. But I have informed my associates."

"You sent a runner?"

"I used a cable. Runners are not safe these days."

"Did you tell the tsar about your plan?"

"Yes. He agreed to go to Arkhangelsk. We are hoping the British, French, or the Americans would protect them."

Weiss nodded and followed him back to the campsite. "Your family. Are they safe?"

"They were accused of being 'traitors' to the 'revolution,'" he spat. "I had to flee to avoid the same fate."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She really was.

"It is fine. It is over and done with. I admit it was cowardice but I would be of better help to others alive than dead."

Noble. "Do you have any relatives? Anyone waiting for you?"

A bitter chuckle. "They are in hiding or they are dead. Any of the two."

"I see." Weiss shifted gears. "So what is the plan when we get to Arkhangelsk?" Assuming that this Commander Chaplin would be successful on his end.

"Wait for the Allies to come. Then..." He shrugged. "... I do not know. I am sorry, _freylina_."

She waved it off. "As long as the tsar and his family are safe and away from here, you don't need to be on my behalf."

"I am curious though, if you do not mind me asking."

"Go ahead." Weiss was already expecting what he was going to say. If they were captured (alive) by that Red Army battalion, they would also be wondering the same thing.

"What you did back there...what was that? What was all of that?"

The white-haired girl groaned internally. Not the right time, place, and mood for having this talk. "I have...special abilities. And I do not practice witchcraft or the occult or any of that garbage!"

Mister Dverko held his hands in the air. "I never mentioned such. I am only...trying to understand that what I saw was indeed a miracle from God." He shrugged apologetically. "Maybe He has sent an angel to protect His chosen?"

"If only that were the case," she breathed exasperatedly.

"Ah, here we are." The monarchist had a small brief curve on the side of his lips. "It was nice to have conversed with you, _freylina_."

"Likewise, Semyon Klementovich." And with that, Weiss strolled towards the truck parked along a row of trees. The vehicle was riddled with more bullet holes with some lucky hits on the front; Mister Trupp voiced concern that the engine may have been damaged. A fire pit had been prepared with Miss Demidova cooking rations of cabbage soup for everyone.

The former heiress settled beside Anastasia and Alexei. Tsar Nicholas and Doctor Botkin emerged of the woods shortly thereafter with more sticks for the flame.

"What have you been doing out there?" Anya asked.

"Thinking."

"Have you been practicing more of your magic?" excitedly inquired Lyoshka.

"Not much. I was meditating," Weiss answered with a small smile. She wanted to be more acquainted with the young lad, she really did. Behind him, Tsaritsa Alexandra leveled a stoic expression at her. "It has been a long time since I used my Semblance."

"Can you make things float in the air?"

She knew a girl who could do that but she was dead now. Of course, no one else did not need to know that. "Not in the way you are thinking."

"But your glyphs. What you did back there. You were amazing! We went so fast!"

"Well, I'm flattered, Lyoshka." Weiss did not know what else to say. She caught Anya flashing her a sympathetic smirk. Tatiana, who had noticed, merely shrugged. Weiss sighed and smiled at the young prince.

"So...can you make me fly?"

"Ah..." She saw the sudden shock on the tsaritsa's face. "No."

"But you flew!"

"It works...under certain rules."

"But you can fly with them, yes? I saw you!" Alexei excitedly mimicked her conjuring a glyph underneath her feet to accelerate her speed. Then, catching the looks he was getting from his parents, he composed himself as primly as a (deposed) prince should. "You were amazing, Isha."

The former heiress saw Anya grinning behind him. Weiss wanted to be closer to Alexei, after all. This was a good start. So she proceeded to entertain the young princes' rapid-fire inquiries about her abilities. The things he was not able to ask back at Mister Dverko's lodge came flowing out here in the middle of the North Russian wilderness. And Weiss enjoyed having someone this animated to talk to.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 23, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: July 28, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 27, 2018**


	7. July 27, 1918

_July 27, 1918_

* * *

Jaune sat on a crate and ran his fingers across his Military Medal. The docks here in Flanders were rather peaceful with the birds squawking and the seas wafting up to port. No enfilading fire, no cannonades, no screaming... Isolating himself from the other soldiers, he waited alongside the rest of them for the Allied ships to come and ferry them to Russia.

"Jaune."

He looked up. And stood up straight. " _Capitaine_ Causson."

Captain Émile Causson strode towards him. " _Repos_ , _Caporal_."

Jaune sat back down, tucking away his newest medal into his satchel along with the other three he had received over the past year.

"How are you feeling, Jaune?" the captain started offhandedly, staring back at the sea.

" _Bien_."

"You do know that we will be working with a different unit."

" _Oui_ , _Capitaine_. _Je sais_."

"Some of them have barely seen the worst of what you and I have been through. It would take time to acclimate."

Jaune hummed and nodded.

"Do you remember our objectives?"

The corporal's response was mechanical. "Our purpose is to secure Allied stockpiles at the Russian seaports in Murmansk and Archangel."

"And?"

"Lend aid to the White government and hopefully rescue the Czechs."

"Czechoslovak Legions."

" _D'accord_."

Silence.

Jaune could feel his superior studying him but made no attempt to meet him in the eye. He knew that it was considered dreadfully impolite to leave a conversation hanging, especially with a man who gave the orders, yet he decided to wait a bit longer before speaking. He honestly had nothing to say anyway.

"We might as well rescue the Russian imperial family. They somehow managed to escape the Bolsheviks and are being sheltered by monarchist agents. They are supposedly on their way to Archangel as we speak." Causson paused again then continued heavily. "No one else knows those final details."

The corporal turned to look at him with his brow raised. "Is this why we are conversing in English, sir?"

"Hillard and I have been entrusted with this sensitive part of our mission and I trust you enough to share it with you."

"I'm flattered and grateful, sir." Rescuing deposed royals sounded like something out of an action-adventure movie. Still, Jaune was at least grateful that this campaign would prove to be something of a big break from the monotonous sit-shoot-charge in the muddy, unsanitary trenches...assuming they wouldn't transform Russia into a similar situation.

"I can tell that you are not being yourself, Jaune," his superior remarked. "You may have been under my command for six months but that is enough time for me to understand you. I know this is all hard for you but it is harder on me and your comrades if you cannot gather your thoughts properly."

"I only fight like everyone else, sir."

"You become frenzied and you charge recklessly into the enemy lines." Causson sighed. "And you survive every time. I do not know why, I do not know how. But you are a walking miracle. I have never seen a man repeatedly survive the injuries you have sustained."

Jaune shrugged. "You said it, sir. I am very lucky."

"And blessed."

Right.

"And foolhardy."

Come again?

"Jaune, I hope you are aware that your actions can inspire others to do the same. When you run out there in the open, many follow behind you. Unlike you, however, they do not survive."

Of course. He was aware of it. And he was powerless to stop the boulder of momentum once it started rolling downhill. No matter how many times he convinced himself that he was not at fault, the fact remained that other soldiers would willingly charge alongside him under the umbrella of his so-called 'invincibility' hoping to experience the same luck. Which made surviving a blunted charge more jarring than the last. Because he had inadvertently led others to their deaths.

Causson cleared his throat. "Personally, I am hoping that the Arctic cold would temper your battle fury. Perhaps this campaign would reinvigorate your resolve."

Resolve for what? Living? What was there to live for in a world where he did not belong? Jaune had no home here, no friends here, no childhood, no memories, nothing to root him to this blasted Earth. If anything, this land was his afterlife with this war serving as his unending penance for his mistakes at Beacon.

"I will keep that in mind, sir," he answered emptily.

"When this war is over, I would be willing to personally finance your return to Greece if you wish."

Jaune failed to conceal his surprise. "Sir?"

The captain smiled warmly, as a father would to his son. "Or wherever you would want to go, be it work or schooling. Do not take this as favoritism or fraternization, however. You have much potential that I hate to see squandered."

"That would be nice. Thank you, sir." He had no idea how to go about this, though. Greece? What was he supposed to do in Greece? Perhaps visit Athens and pretend that he had not been there in a while to cover up for his complete ignorance of the place? Or maybe actually apply at the _Acad_ _é_ _mie de Paris_ or some other school.

Ah, why bother thinking of the future when he was constantly gambling with his Aura? Captain Causson should save his resources for someone else. Jaune had had enough of shattered optimism and false hope.

"How are you injuries, by the way?"

Gone. "Itchy."

"Do you need ointment or any medicaments?"

"No, thank you, sir. I'm fine." At Arras, to placate the field nurses and hide his Aura, he had to rub over his deep gashes with exotic oil balms from some desert region called Palestine. Other than stinging with the intensity of a hundred wasps, they did not do much.

Horns blasted the silence away to signal the arrival of the transport fleet. Causson tapped him on the shoulder. "Inform me if you need anything."

" _Oui_ , _Capitaine_."

"And Jaune. Do take care of yourself. Know that I pray every night for you and your brothers here to return home safe." Then he strolled to the other troops lounging on the other side of the dock.

Jaune had to give his superior credit for striving to be a better officer. That was why he respected the man; he always endeavored to amend suicidal orders. The blonde corporal watched the captain wave down the salutes and initiate casual conversation in French. The stiffness among the men died, replaced by by some laughter and some smiles. And a handful of fleeting glances his way. As much as he wanted to sit back and watch the troopships slowly dock on the pier, he felt the nagging obligation that he apparently owed to his would-be squad.

With a quiet grunt, he picked himself up and dragged himself over. Time to 'socialize' with his new unit. Goodness knows he would be sharing a boat with them for the next week or so.

* * *

The journey could have been as straight as a line drawn on a map. Alas, Weiss was once again reminded of the principle that even the simplest of plans could spiral completely out of their control.

First, the truck ran out of fuel along the muddy off roads, forcing them all to prod along on foot towards the nearest settlement. They could have kept with the highway were it not for the Bolshevik patrols. Second, upon reaching the village, someone immediately recognized the imperial family and could not control their elation...inadvertently alerting the local commissar. That led to an attempted arrest, a shootout on the streets (with the only casualty being amazingly the commissar himself), and the unintended emergence of an underground anti-Bolshevik militia. Third, despite the militia guiding their escape, they somehow managed to encounter the rear echelons of an entire Bolshevik army.

The skirmish was quick albeit painful. Two of their number were killed and another passed from his wounds while they melted back into the woods. Three more militiamen were wounded though thankfully not seriously; Mister Kharitonov endured a graze on his thigh when he pushed the tsar down to avoid getting shot while Olga and Tatiana suffered light gashes after snagging themselves on chipped timber.

Weiss could have assisted with her Semblance but after two small glyphs, she nearly fainted from exhaustion. So she resolved to assist moving the imperial family from danger while Mister Dverko and his associates returned fire. They, too, followed suit, the Bolsheviks thankfully being too uncoordinated to pursue them.

That was three hours ago. They had since hiked further into the woods and set up camp with all the amenities provided by the militia. They had been planning for these kinds of contingencies for a while now though the sudden appearance of the imperial family in the flesh was completely unexpected. Admirably, their presence was enough of a morale boost especially after going through the motions of loosing three of their own in a battle.

"Isha?"

Weiss set down the tin plate. "Yes, Doctor Botkin?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Never better."

The physician studied her worriedly. "Forgive me for expressing my observations. Your abilities appear to be putting a heavy strain on you."

She nodded. "I am aware. It's part of who we are. Or who I am."

"I have noticed the fatigue. It appears to me that the more you use your abilities, the more your body has to cope. Is there anything related to these unique characteristics of yours that could be more easily understood?"

Weiss remembered that he had been provided a surgical field kit. She doubted any of the tools in the wooden box were sterilized. "It is mainly between me and my Aura. Meditation is the best treatment for my case. Don't take this the wrong way; I appreciate your concern, doctor."

Doctor Botkin nodded. " _Horosho_. _Ya ponimayu_. If you need anything, I am always available."

If only there was anything he could do, she did not say. Grazed, bruised, and aching, there was only so much her Aura could do. And even then, her Semblance demanded much of her. It honestly hurt so much that she was unable to be of more help. Morose thoughts aside, she finished off the last scraps on her plate then turned in for the evening.

They had tents, at least, along with some extra cots. Four sentries rotated in shifts for the night though Weiss could barely get any sleep.

"Isha?"

"Yes, Anya?"

"You cannot sleep?"

" _Nyet_." Weiss turned on her side. Anastasia looked as though she had barely gotten any herself.

"Is there...anything on your mind?" inquired the grand duchess.

The former heiress gazed back at the flaps of their tent before answering, "Yes. There is a lot."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Weiss was unsure. On one hand, she owed it this much to the imperial family to be more open with them. On the other, she did not want to burden them any more with her own worries. They had been fleeing on foot across the rugged winter wilderness for days and that alone had been enough of a burden for all of them.

"It's fine if you would not want to."

She shook her head. "No, no. There's just...so much on my mind that...it's hard. So many things happening. We were in a palace, then shipped from safe house to safe house. We were under house arrest and then...we escaped and...we have been hiding out then running..."

Anya nodded. "Okay. I guess I am not alone in this."

Weiss raised her brow. "You too?"

The grand duchess chuckled softly. "It has been quite an adventure, don't you think?"

Complete with the brutal reality of casualties, indeed it has. "I suppose so." She heard shuffling and saw that Anya had moved to lay on her side, a determined but curious expression on her face.

"Isha, have your powers...is using your glyphs hurting you? Because you have been paler than usual."

Whether or not that was meant as a joke or a serious observation, she wanted to roll her eyes. She was always pale. It was a common trait among natural Atlesians, especially those whose lineages dated back to the earliest settlers of the continent. And did not Atlas share the same climate as Russia? Only, Russia was much, _much_ larger and colder. "It's normal."

"You nearly collapsed on the march."

Fatigue. "I slipped."

"You needed help carrying some of our things."

Debility. "They were too heavy."

"You are not a strong as you were before," Anya deadpanned with a flat look.

Weiss met hers with a poor glare. "My powers demand much from me. You shouldn't worry."

"Are you sure? Do you need a massage or a cup of tea with melted ice?" she teased.

The former heiress rolled her eyes. "It's getting dark, Anya. We should rest."

A wry smirk. "Feeling sleepy already?"

She wished she was. Might as well force herself to rest. Shifting to her side so her back faced her, she echoed, "Goodnight, Anya."

A soft giggle. "Of course. _Spokoynoi nochi_ , Isha." Moments of silence passed until the grand duchess quietly followed up with, " _Ya znayu ty ustal_. _Pozhaluysto nye navredi sebye_."

Weiss gripped her sheets as she struggled not to cry.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 25, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 6, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 30, 2018**


	8. August 4, 1918

_August 4, 1918_

* * *

"Well. I admit I had my doubts but...that's a development," Weiss acquiesced.

"Many people would rather prefer the liberties of other administrations than the constrictions of the Petrograd Soviet," answered Mister Dverko as he carefully put away the telegraph machine.

"So. Does this mean Arkhangelsk is safe for us?" inquired Grand Duchess Anastasia.

"Your Highness, Arkhangelsk is the safest place for all of us," replied the peasant monarchist with a slight bow. "We are almost there. Soon, you will be in better hands."

"What about you?" the white-haired girl inquired.

"I have made my choice, _freylina_. Russia is my home. I would rather die protecting it from those fools in Moscow."

The long arduous trek through the frozen woodlands had been anything but uneventful. Foraging on the march, hunted by Bolsheviks, fending off wolves and other predators; there were so many things that tempted Weiss to exercise her Semblance were it not for her health or the unintended effect it would have on their escorts. So far, they were mum about it.

Weiss and Anastasia followed Mister Dverko to the other side of the abandoned farmhouse where the rest of the imperial family and their retinue were resting. Good fortune to find shelter in the middle of nowhere. The monarchist addressed everyone present, passing assurances that their destination was now under provisional authority and that Allied troops would soon be occupying the area.

The former heiress could barely comprehend the string of Russian as the imperial family, their retinue, and some of the militiamen conversed freely. She caught the young prince Alexei beaming from ear to ear. He met her gaze and grinned. Weiss smiled. Then grinned back. A week into their difficult journey and they were feeling better than ever before. Nothing could seem to ruin their joy.

* * *

Then the Red Army came. In force.

"Run! Keep running!" yelled Mister Dverko.

Weiss ran. She ran holding Anya's hand. She ran alongside the tsar carrying his son over his shoulders. She ran with the Romanovs and their retinue. She ran while the pro-White militia engaged in a moving gun battle with scores of Bolshevik infantry. Her boots sunk into the hardening mud, making every step a strenuous effort. All the while bullets whistled past, thankfully none hitting them. Yet.

"Into the forest! Hurry!"

They straggled between the trees. A cartridge whistled past Weiss's head, chipped into the bark of a nearby pine, and jettisoned a large piece towards her temple with enough force to knock her onto the ground.

"Isha!"

"Don't stop moving, Anya!" the former heiress barked, shoving away the grand duchess. Something warm trickled down her ears before she was quickly hauled to her feet and pushed forward by Mister Dverko.

"Now would be a nice time to use your abilities, _freylina_!"

Weiss grit her teeth and found the taste of copper seeping into the edge of her lips. "Stand aside then!"

"Isha! Are you sure!?" Anastasia was ignored.

A series of glyphs morphed a few feet apart, raising clumps of soil and timbre debris into a thin palisade stretching across the tree line. Weiss grimaced as she maintained the barricade long enough for everyone else to be deeper into the woods. Then she let go, fell back, and repeated the same process. Her arms were hurting and her vision blurred the more she repeated the tactic, blocking the Red Army's sporadic enfilades.

The former heiress did not anticipate having to exert herself this much; just enough to hold them off before melting into the forest. Unlike before, however, the Bolsheviks poured in after them. She dropped onto her belly after she fell back for the fifth time. By then, they were close enough for her to see their individual faces. Then puffs of smoke amid gunbursts.

"Isha!"

" _Freylina_ Schnee!"

Weiss crawled desperately towards Anastasia while Mister Dverko fired back relentlessly, furiously cycling the bolt to the point that his rifle jammed.

"Isha! Grab my hand!"

She gripped Anya's arm and was yanked through the underbrush. Her body plowed into the grand duchess, sending them both rolling down the slope. Looking back up, she could see the monarchist sliding towards them. His arms swooped under them both, dragging them deeper into the uneven woodlands towards the waiting militia.

"Isha, you are injured," assessed Doctor Botkin after she basically stumbled behind the group.

She waved him off. "I'm fine! I'm fine..."

" _Nyet_. You are not." The physician began unpacking his kit. "Stay with me, dear. Semyon Klementovich, _pomogitye mnye zdyes_!"

Weiss once again lost consciousness before she could resist being scooped up in Mister Dverko's arms.

* * *

Regardless of what he had heard about the largest country he had ever seen on any map, Jaune found Russia to have some of the most stunning winter landscapes so far untainted by war. His unit had disembarked on the port of Arkhangelsk after the rather scenic trip through the Northern Dvina tributary.

"Émile! Glad to see you made it."

"Likewise you in good health, Wilfred."

"Ah, Jaune Arc! The one and only."

Several pairs of eyes turned to the blonde Greco-French corporal who was struggling to suppress a groan. "Captain Hillard."

Captain Wilfred Hillard closed the gap and shook his hand. "Good to see you made it safe, my boy."

"Good to be back on land," he answered evenly. While never being able to overcome his airsickness, traveling by ship was not easy on his stomach. Having successfully fought his rebellious stomach for over a week on a moving husk, he was now feeling nauseous from the varied levels of attention he was getting. Half the soldiers on the ship he was on recognized him immediately. His own squad gushed over his supposed 'exploits.' He was pretty sure the whole of Russia would soon learn about him, too.

"Forked Lightning," the British officer continued with a prideful smile. "The Bolsheviks would be reeling."

More like the Bolsheviks would have something new to shoot at, Jaune did not say. Gripping his coat tighter around himself—Russia was freezing!—he followed Captain Hillard into the town proper where haughty men in thick coats and fur hats stood by, some gawking at him with near unreadable expressions. Jaune correctly guessed they were the Whites, the monarchist (or at least anti-Bolshevik) Russians who fought for the tsar or whatever.

"Gentlemen. The Supreme Administration of the Northern Region."

Out of practice, Jaune stood at attention, back straight, chin up. The local government office was modestly bland but warm. The commanding officers for the Allied expedition and their White Russian counterparts reciprocated with light nods. Half of the latter sported thick, scraggly beards. Either these people loved facial hair or this civil war was so bad that there was no time to shave.

"Our secret weapon has arrived," intoned British Lieutenant General Frederick Poole.

"Welcome to Russia," greeted the tsarist Captain Georgi Chaplin. "You are Corporal Ionas Arkos, yes?"

The corporal nodded. "Yes, sir."

"A little younger than I expected but if the rumors are true..."

"He is attached to our contingent," Poole carefully interceded. "Rest assured. He will be actively involved in all our efforts to assist as best we can."

"That is good." Chaplin appeared unamused as he resigned behind the planning table. "Speaking of rumors, I am confident you have heard talk about the imperial family."

Almost instantly, the sentries marched out, closing the door behind them and leaving Jaune as the lowest-ranking soldier in the room. Other than Causson, Hillard, and General Poole, everyone else was a mixed bag of military and civil administrators.

"Is that a confirmed report?" inquired Hillard.

"Which one?"

Poole exhaled. "Captain Chaplin, you know what we are referring to."

Chaplin exchanged looks with his own staff, especially with a bearded man who looked as though something actually crawled up his colon and died. They conversed briefly in Russian after which the Russian captain relaxed and answered evenly,

"General Poole, the Romanovs are on their way towards us as we speak. I have sent a brigade to our clear our eastern borders in anticipation of their arrival."

"Their escorts are aware of this, I assume," Poole said.

"We have a fine agent guiding them. They will not be lost."

"When was your last communication with this agent?"

"Only recently. They are near."

"Any details of their location?"

"Woods. Somewhere west of Syktyvkar." Chaplin was nudged by another officer of his staff. Following a quick hushed exchange, he added, "There is the threat of the Bolshevik Sixth and Seventh Armies. I am sure that if you wish to see to the imperial family's safety, then you would be willing to spare us your troops, yes?"

Jaune did not like the way that was worded.

"We do not have much at the moment," Poole replied. "But we will attach a brigade to your main forces."

The blonde corporal could not ignore the attention he was getting from the Russians.

"I would like to know how effective he is," the tsarist captain intoned. "You break the German lines like forked lightning, yes? Can you break the Bolsheviks' ranks the same way?"

"We will see, sir," he answered before either Causson or Hillard could. Clearing his throat at their silence, Jaune continued, "I am not expendable, by the way."

Chaplin nodded understandably. " _Konechno_ , _konechno_. General Poole, I request that Captain Causson's unit would participate in our advance down the Northern Dvina."

Poole nodded. "Are we sharing the same objectives in this regard?"

"You want to rescue the imperial family, yes? The rivers are still in Bolshevik hands. We would not want them to swim upstream, no? Under fire from the riverbanks? Especially in this cold weather. When the water will start to freeze."

The atmosphere was tense for a room full of 'allies.' The Allies and the Whites were clearly divided on their own lines. Jaune felt like he was a commodity being bartered at a dirty market, watching and listening between General Poole and Captain Chaplin. Nevertheless, the blonde corporal maintained a cool head until he was led back outside and returned to his squad. Along the way, the question slipped through his teeth before he could clamp his jaw shut.

"We're not going to get stabbed in the back, are we?"

Causson and Hillard exchanged unreadable glances. Then the latter clapped him on the shoulder. "No room for that kind of talk, now."

"Let us return to the squad, Jaune," his French superior interjected. "We have a campaign to fight."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 30, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 1, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 4, 2018**


	9. August 8, 1918

_August 8, 1918_

* * *

Jaune had learned quickly that fighting in the unadulterated forests of Northern Russia demanded approaches that had been nullified by the cratered, fissured plains of France.

Back in the west, he sat in a muddy trench all day and endured hails of dirt, clouds of poisonous gas, and deafening barrages of artillery. Then the attacks and counter-attacks over uneven ground. It was straightforward for the most part—classic 'bite and hold.' Here in the northeast, however, they were either constantly on the move or constantly on their bellies behind some trees, encountering locals were very ambiguous about their loyalty.

And the Bolsheviks were unlike the harried German infantrymen. Some either fled while others kept pressing until they impaled themselves on their bayonets, an experience that shocked many in his unit.

Their advance down the Northern Dvina River was marked by constant skirmishes against Bolshevik scouting parties (who were surprisingly better equipped in regards to the weather and the environment than they were) and some 'misunderstandings' with elements of the White Army. And then there was _rasputitsa—_ the damning sludge of snow and icy mud that paralyzed vehicles, hampering logistics, and entrapping the unsuspecting Western Allies in puddles of hardening soil, making them perfect targets for Red Army sharpshooters hidden in the wilderness.

Thankfully, casualties were low. So far. They had dug in east of the river, not far from a settlement called Dvinskoy. A small lake stretched before them, sheets of ice cresting by the embankments.

"Ey, Jaune," nudged his squad-mate, a lanky grenadier he nicknamed Baz. " _Vous avez vu_ _ç_ _a_?"

Jaune followed Baz's finger across the water. Yes; he saw them. Their white coats melded them with the snowy ground but their rifles gave them away. The blonde corporal dropped into the trench and began running, startling the rest of their unit, half of whom were waking from their naps. " _Des bolch_ _é_ _viques_! _Des bolch_ _é_ _viques de l'autre c_ _ô_ _t_ _é_ _du lac_!"

Causson emerged out of one of the culverts, binoculars in hand. "Jaune, Bazoulle, _est-ce que vous les voyez_?"

Baz nodded nervously. " _Nous les avons vus_ , _Capitaine_."

Jaune took up a static position not far from their elevated machine-gun nest. "Avi, Gosse, _vous les voyez_?"

" _Oui_ , Jaune," answered the machine-gunner Avi while rifleman Gosse opened fire at the encroaching dots.

Something cracked in the air and a bullet whistled past their heads which was countered by the Lewis gun rattling to life. Battle was now joined.

Across the lake, the Bolsheviks dropped prone amid the puffs of dirt. Their shouts echoed over the water to them. They returned fire while more emerged from the wilderness. Jaune peeked over the sandbags; the silhouettes had tripled. A red flag then appeared above their heads, signaling the arrival of an entire division. Which meant one thing.

" _C'est la Sixi_ _è_ _me Arm_ _é_ _e_!" someone announced and it was soon repeated up and down the trench line.

Almost immediately, the Bolshevik enfilades intensified forcing the French unit to duck their heads with only Avi bravely contesting the barrage with his Lewis gun.

" _O_ _ù_ _sont les Blancs_!?" Baz screeched. Good question. Where were the Whites?

" _Je ne sais pas_!" Jaune barked back. First real contact with the enemy and already things seemed to be snowballing downhill. The monarchists should be responding to their plight by now. In fact, where in the damn world was Hillard and his men!? They should be following up their rear!

A cartridge shattered against the plank above Baz's head, causing the young private to flinch and whimper. He started whispering and pleading to whatever deity he believed in to deliver him from this torment. Jaune wanted to roll his eyes at that; he had seen worse.

" _L_ _e_ _vez-vous_ , _soldat_!" the blonde corporal ordered.

Baz stared at him. "Jaune?"

" _L_ _è_ _vez-vous_ , Baz! _Nous devons aider_ Avi," Jaune repeated more forcefully, hauling his comrade up by his arm and dragging him towards the machine-gun nest where Avi had crouched low, frantically digging through the ammunition boxes for a fresh magazine pan.

Jaune and Baz clamored over, occupying their makeshift hole. Great. All that was needed now was a lucky grenade and their whole squad would go up in pieces. Except for him, maybe. Baz, Avi, and Gosse would die in an instant because they lacked Aura, leaving him the sole survivor once again. As it always had and always would be.

A click and the Lewis gun cackled back to life. The blonde corporal repositioned himself beside the stuttering grenadier who by now had gotten some control of his nerves though he could see how tight he held his rifle to keep his hands from shaking.

Corporal Arkos nudged him and calmly said, " _Ne pensez pas_. _Tirez_."

And Jaune took aim at a Bolshevik soldier running across the field and squeezed. The rifle bucked against his shoulder and the man dropped like a sack. Beside him, he could hear Bazoulle's heavy breaths under the cackling of his own rifle as he tried to follow his example.

* * *

Weiss had never been this incapacitated before. Her Aura was constantly skirting depletion while her Semblance was becoming more of a health hazard than a lifesaver. She had become a casualty, a liability, a burden that could very well need a stretcher if this damn walking stick she was using broke.

It took her Aura three days to heal the gash she received from the piece of tree that ripped across her temple. Weiss grit her teeth; until she could find a mirror, she would have to accept this new scar to remind her of her frailty.

"How much farther?" she asked between huffs.

"Not more than a day's walk," replied Mister Dverko. "We are almost to the shores of the Dvina. From there, we can follow it upstream to the Allied lines."

"How can we tell they're not Bolshevik?"

"Well, _freylina_ , hopefully they won't shoot at us on sight. And maybe they would speak English better than me. Even with a better accent."

"Fair enough," she huffed, trudging through the hardening mud in her worn boots, her makeshift cane enabling her to avoid falling on her rump every time she lifted one foot in front of the other.

"Maybe, they could provide the proper treatment for your condition," he gruffly added.

"Come again?"

Mister Dverko grunted as he tossed aside debris from a broken fence to clear the road they were on. "You are blessed but at the same time cursed. I have realized that."

"What exactly do you mean?" Weiss inquired.

"You can use magic—"

"It's not magic."

"Your abilities. To me, it looks like you have an illness. It gives you strength at later cost." He must have been expecting a reply when he went on in silence, pausing to look back at her. "I meant no offense, _freylina_."

"None taken," she answered softly. "Is it that obvious? Am I...weak?"

"No, no! Not at all! I never meant that," the monarchist apologized animatedly. "Forgive me for any offense that may have come from that."

"I am not of noble rank so you don't need to pander," Weiss rebutted.

Mister Dverko still bowed slightly before continuing onwards. This quagmire of a highway—or lack thereof—stretched for miles. Boot marks, horse hooves, and wheel tracks caked over each other resulting in a freezing sludge that was notorious for breaking logistics. "If I may ask, _freylina_..."

"Go ahead."

"You say you are not of noble birth. How did you come to be in the company of the tsar?"

Weiss grunted loudly as she finally fell in step with the monarchist though she still struggled through the mud. "Circumstance. I was lucky."

"How lucky?"

She leveled her gaze at him. No harm in opening up to their guide. "I had to fend for myself on the streets for a while. Then a cavalry detachment came and whisked me away to safety." Safety being the Alexander Palace in Tsarskoye Selo where she was confined alongside the Romanovs under house arrest.

"Ah. You were caught in the riots."

More like dropped in the middle of an anarchic city and forced to defend herself from angry mobs and rogue soldiers with only an officer's saber and her Semblance. It was also her first real human kill; running through a man's gut with her sword only to find out that Aura simply did not exist in this world. "I was swept up in it, yes."

She could never forget those wide blue eyes that gawked back at her as the life drained out of them. The militant even had scraggly blonde hair and a youthful face. Some twisted part of her brain snickered at the agonizing resemblance to that dolt—

"I heard from the tsesarevich that you used your skills to escape execution."

"I had to." Weiss exerted enough control to avoid cracking. "They mean so much to me."

" _Freylina_."

The white-haired girl nearly bumped into the monarchist. "Oh! Sorry."

Mister Dverko helped her stand to lean against the fence. "We have gone far enough ahead. Let us wait for the rest."

"Right. Thank you." Looking back, they had indeed proceeded further up the trail. With a few handicaps, it would take the main body of their group to reach them. So far, this was a nice spot to rest. Carving through this damn mud was like wading through a pool of molasses.

" _Freylina_. Do you have family waiting for you?"

She was dead and this world was her afterlife. "I don't think they are."

"I am sorry then. I did not mean to bring any sad memories—"

"It's not your fault, Semyon Klementovich. What I meant was that my father...thinks I'm dead. Probably my mother as well. My sister and my brother." Weiss bit her lip to keep herself from spilling out. "It would be better if they would not worry about a missing sibling."

"I...can understand that."

"You do?"

The farmer wore a fragile smile. "False hope is a great pain. Even if it were true, I think it would be healthy for some people if they moved on. I am learning that."

They sat in silence for a while before Weiss uttered, "I lost a friend in a battle."

"You do not have to share the story if it hurts you..."

"No. It's fine. This is healing." She breathed deep then continued. "She was a skilled...tournament fighter. She was the best at it but she had never killed someone in a duel. She always followed the rules. Then there was a battle and...she decided to stay behind and fight."

Whistling breeze.

"I am sorry, _freylina_."

Weiss wiped her face clean. She had blocked most memories of Beacon from her mind. Talking about Pyrrha, dredging up the past, the chaos of that fateful day... She was crying more often now. With a dignified sniffle, she forced herself back onto the road in time to see the rest of their motley group coming up the path.

Anya waved at her. The two of them waved back.

Weiss noticed the faint shimmering on her palm. Her Aura was fluctuating. Deep down, she started praying to whatever listened for some other guardian angel to protect them from harm for at least a day. Goodness knows, she was tired of being one.

* * *

Either the Bolsheviks were equally as green as the members of his unit or they simply did not have the means to deal with a mounted machine gun breaking apart their frontal attacks. Bodies piled in and around the lake as far as Jaune could see. Ducking down to reload another clip into his rifle, he caught Causson marching through the trenches, back straight and head defiantly exposed, barking orders and slogans.

Hold the line.

Be steadfast.

Help is on the way.

Rarely had he ever seen his superior march out among his troops in the thick of things. In France, Causson was coordinating the defense three trenches back, letting his lieutenants do the rounds. Now, he was the marching along the first line of defense, risking much more than he could have by staying in a tent further back. For Jaune, he had already earned the respect accrued his rank.

Perhaps that was why the blonde corporal felt a sudden wave of righteous fury when a bullet ripped into the side of the captain's neck.

" _Merde_! _Tireur_!" screamed an infantryman.

Jaune could feel the environment feeding his mounting rage; Avi abusing the Lewis gun, Baz panicking, Gosse screaming, Causson gargling on his own blood. A burning energy began to flow through his veins, condensing into a glowing light on his hands. His Aura was manifesting again. More forcefully now.

With a mighty roar, Corporal Arkos leapt over the trench. The voices of his comrades were muffled by his craze, rushing up to the Bolsheviks and engaging in a melee with his rifle. To any other man, this would have been clear suicide. Unlike any other man, Jaune 'Forked Lightning' Arc had immense Aura reserves that not only protected him from the cuts and bruises inflicted by the Red Army but also empowered his blows, knocking back soldier after soldier into the trees.

It was cathartic.

By the time he wound down, he was standing on the other side of the lake. Like a peal of forked lightning, he had struck fast and hard at the Bolshevik division, hitting them hard enough to make them reel back as though they were attacked simultaneously on several points along their lines. Bodies, many bleeding and some writhing, surrounded him.

Jaune was still in a daze when he plucked the red flag off its clay perch and walked back to the Allied line, passing by his own squadron who was panting from their own individual battles. Baz stood over a corpse, close to hyperventilating while blood dripped from his bayonet. Gosse worked the bolt on his rifle to expend a used cartridge. Avi clumsily rifled through the pockets of a fallen Bolshevik.

Boots crunching against snow, heels squelching on mud. Jaune trudged back to the trench, ignoring the stares of his squad mates who were by then coming to grips with themselves and mustering after him.

The British and the Whites were already there, some sitting comfortably on their saddles, watching him intensely. In a culvert in the trench, Causson looked up at him, a medic holding a stained towel over his neck. The French officer was still breathing.

"Jaune," he rasped.

" _Capitaine_ ," he acknowledged, standing on the wooden plank that served as the bridge over their ditch. " _C'est fait_."

Causson forced himself to sit straight. " _Vous_ _ê_ _tes bless_ _é_."

Wounded? Oh. Right. Looking down, he saw the rips in his uniform, a few holes where the enemy got lucky. Blood leaked and spread across the fur of his winter coat. Jaune grunted and crossed the trench and closed the gap to the white mare at the front of the British marine division that responded belatedly to their skirmish.

"Corporal Arkos," Hillard greeted formally.

"You're late, sir," Jaune growled, tossing the red banner by the hooves of his steed. "I'm going to take a nap."

"You're injured."

"I know, sir." The blonde corporal continued walking, a little intrigued that the soldiers parted to let him through. He began to hear the same gossip filter through the ranks.

Forked Lightning destroyed an enemy assault.

Those wounds should have killed him.

He was glowing on the battlefield.

Glowing, huh. That was a first. His Aura must have kicked into overdrive. Maybe if he worked himself into a greater fury, he might finally unlock his Semblance. But would it even matter at this point? He was already a weapon more than a person. His Aura was enough of a game changer; how much more when his Semblance—whatever it would be—would come into play? Would it actually make a big enough difference in this war? And the next?

Frankly, Jaune could care less.

* * *

Hiding in the snow was more uncomfortable than she anticipated. Even with the thick fur coat, Weiss still felt the cold seeping through the fabric to her skin which, debunking common Atlesian stereotypes, was not impervious to the cold. She was freezing and if she dug her bare fingers into the snow long enough, she would get frostbite.

"Do you see that?" whispered Mister Dverko.

She squinted. With the sun having already set, there was not much light to draw from. But there were lanterns spread about and with a few handheld oil lamps flickering brightly enough to illuminate the small village. There were about six trucks parked in the middle of the settlement with Red Army soldiers loading the backs with wooden boxes. "I see them. Are they in the way?"

"They are occupying our stop-over. We need to get into the village."

Weiss studied their chances. Along the tree line, she traced the lumps of the prone militia, all eying the Bolshevik presence. A bit behind were the imperial family and their retinue. Equipped mostly with pistols and limited ammunition while their escorts had cycling rifles, disadvantaged by their small numbers compared to the company size that was all over the settlement. The diminished visibility would also make it difficult for either side to cause any harm to the other. Maybe with a bit of her Semblance...

"I don't know how I can be of much help," she admitted.

"It is okay, _freylina_. I understand. We can take them by surprise. You can shoot, yes?"

Weiss rarely used traditional firearms and her handling of the revolvers she confiscated from Commander Yurovsky's men were amateurish at best. "I can try."

Mister Dverko reached behind him and handed her a semi-automatic pistol, vastly different from the cylindrical shooter she had familiarized herself with. "American-made. Easier to use than my Nagant. Seven bullets. Please be wise with them, _freylina_."

The former heiress accepted the pistol and was adjusting to the grip when a louder hum resonated from the road ahead. Heads turned to see...

"Are those...?"

"Armored cars." Mister Dverko huffed in disbelief. "They have armored cars."

Weiss observed the three vehicles pulling up next to the trucks. It appeared as though someone had mounted riveted steel armor over a taxi. They seemed sturdy though with how they handled the mud on the way in. Then the drivers and gunners emerged, some brushing off the sweat off their brow in the cold weather. So it was probably cramped and humid in there. Compared to the trucks which had more space...

She looked at her fingers. Can she use the same tactic again? The Fiat looked lighter compared to these larger trucks.

"We should wait for them to fall asleep," mused Mister Dverko, "then we go into the village and steal a truck...no, two trucks...and some of the cars. Hopefully, not many guards would be alert at that time." He turned to her. " _Freylina_ , you will have to stay back to protect the imperial family."

"I trust that you have a plan thought out?"

"We strike shortly after midnight when they are in deep sleep. That I am sure of."

She was still unsure yet nodded anyway. "Alright."

The monarchist carefully crawled back into the bush. Weiss followed and snuck back to the Romanovs who were huddled further behind.

"What did you see?" asked Anya.

"Vehicles and troops. Don't worry. Just stay here."

"But what if they come into the woods?" pressed Tatiana.

"I don't think they would have a chance to do that," Weiss answered evenly. Honestly, Mister Dverko was quite vague and she herself did not have the confidence that their small band of a dozen militia could pull off something this daring against what could be very well be a full platoon with mechanized support. "They might launch a surprise attack later tonight."

Anya took her hand and felt the cold steel of the pistol. "A gun? You are not going out to fight again, are you?"

"Not this time," Weiss replied definitively. "I'm staying here with you. I was told to. Don't worry. I'm going to help keep you safe." Even if it was going to hurt her more than she could recover.

"You said they have vehicles," Olga said.

"Supply trucks and armored cars."

"They would be empty because the drivers and the gunners would be asleep elsewhere," intoned Tsar Nicholas. "Semyon Klementovich will steal the vehicles from under them, I believe. He would need capable drivers and a means of communicating between them if they are to commandeer several cars. They must also care not to damage the headlights lest we might ride into a tree."

The former heiress had to remember that the tsar had advocated for the mechanization of the Imperial Russian Army before it fragmented which meant that he had already seen the design, production, and operation of these 'pioneering' war machines. "How many people can each of those cars carry?"

"Not many and it is dependent on the model and variant. In general, I remember there is enough space for at least three to five including the crew. The steel should be thick enough to protect from most bullets."

"The trucks could be used to transport you while the armored cars would serve as escorts," Weiss remarked. "Assuming the vehicles would not be damaged."

Tsar Nicholas nodded. "Then I pray that he will succeed."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 25, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 9, 2018**


	10. August 9, 1918

_August 9, 1918_

* * *

The attack could have gone smoother but Weiss had to admit that that was wishful thinking.

Alas, she could only watch while Mister Dverko and his militia were stalled by sentry fire from two of the outlying houses. The lack of lighting, however, worked in their favor as the lanterns behind the windows exposed the shooters while the rest of them were partially camouflaged by the underbrush as they lay flat on their bellies in the snow.

"We should do something!" blurted Maria.

Weiss grit her teeth. She wanted to help. She had a semi-automatic pistol with seven bullets which she doubt would be of any use other than to suppress the enemy while someone else...charged...in...

"We should stay behind," reiterated the tsar. "We have to trust them on this."

"But they will be shot if they stay that way," argued Alexei.

Weiss analyzed the field. Darkness. Poor lighting. No moon tonight, few stars, mostly cloudy. The whole village was awake—there! Men were straggling out the doors holding handheld oil lamps and stumbling towards the armored cars. None of them should get in. So she acted fast.

"Stay here!" she ordered before darting into the open, her slender legs sprinting over the uneven ground with poor grace while both her arms cupped the pistol to steady her aim. She did not need to shoot anyone in particular, just startle them and keep them away from the vehicles. Her fingers squeezed and she subsequently emptied the entire clip into the village square, causing two or three shadows to stumble.

She could hear them shouting now. One managed to jump into one of the cars and turn on the engine.

Weiss powered her leap with a glyph and launched herself towards it. Her body slid across the sloped armor, her arm snagging his and dragging him out of the interior and onto to the ground. Getting up quickly, she delivered a thorough kick to keep him down then squeezed into the vehicle. Her hands wormed around the steering wheel and she realized...she had no idea how to drive this thing.

" _Freylina_!?"

The former heiress raised her now empty pistol at an equally startled Mister Dverko. "Get in!"

" _Chto tiy dyelaesh_ , _freylina_!?" he demanded.

"Shut up and get in the car!" she ordered.

The monarchist turned around, waved at some of his compatriots, and clamored inside to fit into the gunner's perch directly behind her head. "I told you stay and protect the imperial family!"

"While you got shot up by the sentries?"

"We were discovered," he grudgingly admitted. "Perhaps you were right in intervening."

"Do you know how to operate this?"

"Uh, I know how to shoot. This thing can turn different ways, yes?"

Weiss growled. Outside, the pops of gunfire resounded around the village as the militia beat off the dazed Bolsheviks who, amazingly, were still too confused to comprehend that they were being attacked. Even in the dim lighting, she caught a Red Army soldier falling flat on his face because he had neglected to pull up his pants.

"Alright, Weiss. You can do this," she breathed to herself. "Remember what Klein taught you. One foot on the accelerator, one on the breaks...or was it the clutch? Gah! Left foot on something!"

Above her head, the mounted gun rattled in short bursts. She pushed down on her right foot and the engine hummed.

"There should be a lever here or something." Sure enough, her hand closed in on a knob and she pulled. The gears under her reverberated and the car jolted forward.

"Be careful!"

"I'm trying, Semyon Klementovich!"

Reigning in some control, Weiss heaved back on the stick shift and reversed as gently as she could. She did her best to ignore the firefight raging around her, despite flinching when a few bullets ricocheted off the welded armor.

"Good, good! We are winning, _freylina_!"

"I can't see!"

"Keep moving backwards."

A Bolshevik threw himself against the door, startling Weiss who depressed hard on the accelerator. And the car backed up into one of the trucks. She squeaked when he finally pried it open. Before she could react, the man was hurled away by none other than Tsar Nicholas, haggard and smeared in mud. Then he yelled behind him.

"Anya! Olga! Get inside here!"

Weiss had to shift her seating a bit to allow the two grand duchesses leeway to sardine themselves behind her.

"Your Highnesses!"

"Keep what you are doing, Semyon Klementovich," ordered the tsar. "Your companions are making good in the fight. We will seize a truck. That would be enough to carry the rest of us."

"Yes, Your Highness! Be careful!"

Tsar Nicholas nodded then shut the door and trudged through the village, flanked by two militiamen. Weiss worked the stick shift, carefully plodding forward and eventually turning around to face the muddy unpaved road that led out of the village. Already, there were bodies sprawled about. She hoped they were not who she thought they were.

"Wait! We have to wait for the others!" pleaded Olga.

"I can't see from here," Weiss protested. "You will have to be our eyes on the rear."

"There!" Anya pointed. "They are getting in that truck over there." She squealed when more bullets pinged against the hull.

"Don't worry! The armor is thick enough to protect us," the former heiress assured. Shakily. Her hands were actually shaking no matter how hard she gripped the steering wheel. With baited breath, she waited, enduring the pops and pings that resonated off the hull.

And the whir of another mechanical engine that followed up behind. Headlights spread out across the snowy field.

"Go, go!" howled Mister Dverko. "Turn on the lights of this thing!"

Weiss pressed down and the armored car rumbled ahead. The roads, though carved up, were clear. Nothing else stood in their way as the convoy sped into the open and—Weiss hoped—north where the Allied interventionists should be awaiting them.

"Is everyone alright?" the former heiress inquired.

"We are fine," Olga answered. "I do not know about the others."

"I can see Mister Trupp driving behind us," Anya remarked. "No one seems to be injured from what I can see."

What about Alexei? Is he safe? Unhurt? And the tsar? The tsaritsa? The retinue? The militia? Weiss counted to five in her head and breathed deep. "What about the Bolsheviks?"

"They cannot have followed us," reported the monarchist.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I shot the other vehicles that were not taken. I made sure to hit the engine and the wheels."

"I can't believe I'm leading the convoy," she groused. "Are we going in the right direction, at least?"

Mister Dverko stammered a little. "Ah, f-follow the road until we are far enough away. Then we can stop and plan properly. That is the best we can do for now, I guess."

Weiss groaned. "I hope you know what you're doing, Semyon Klementovich."

" _Freylina_ , truthfully, I hope I do."

* * *

Jaune was on his way back from the medical tent when he heard Causson roar over something Hillard apparently said in the adjacent command post. He wanted to keep walking, not wanting to bother about what was being argued. Let the officers bicker over whatever strategy they had in mind. Besides, let the tools like him sit in the ditches and screen the enemy before the next step in the campaign.

"We are far beyond our nearest point of supply!" barked the French captain.

"We can trust the locals to maintain our logistical line," calmly answered his British counterpart.

"Even then we do not have the men or material to push further south! And the thought of using Jaune of all people—"

The blonde corporal froze in his tracks.

"Have you seen what transpired out there?" Hillard challenged.

"'Heavenly glow,' 'men sent flying,' bah!" retorted Causson. "I could care less if he was a valkyrie and sprouted wings! You cannot simply use him as such! He is a boy on the verge of losing the vestiges of his humanity!"

"Let us be pragmatic here, Émile. You and I both know that we have advanced the furthest in this entire expedition. The Bolsheviks are basically throwing themselves at tip of our blades. Why use the sheath in place of the sword?"

"Because the sword will break."

A scoff. "I doubt it. Corporal Arkos is more than a man with uncanny luck. He has the hand of God over him and it would suit our best interests and _survival_ if he were to be maintained at the fore and deployed to his full potential."

"And if some sharpshooter makes short work of him? What then? What if the cold gets to him first? Hm? Do you have any contingencies for that?"

"Yesterday, he was shot and stabbed more times than either of us have ever been since we landed. And yet he still walks. I am confident it would take more than a sharpshooter to put him down."

"Then let us hope the Bolsheviks do not have artillery," snorted the Frenchman.

"He survived a hit from a shell. Close proximity to a blast that great should have ripped his legs off."

"We cannot risk that! The boy is not expendable! He has a future ahead of him—"

"And no known family to receive him when he returns home...if he has any."

Jaune stared at the ground. He could not deny it—Hillard was right. Despite his desire to move, he found himself rooted on the spot.

"Wilfred, I refuse to proceed any further. We have advanced far enough. Any more and we will be cut off and surrounded."

Hillard sounded calm but had a tinge of displeasure in his tone. "Very well. We will wait for the monitors to arrive before we proceed."

The blonde corporal finally forced one foot in front of the other until he was back in the trench. He was the blade while Baz, Avi, Gosse, and every unfortunate private in this detachment was the replaceable scabbard. That was how it is then. He showed no surprise when Causson, still in a bit of a sour mood, ordered them to transfer the Lewis gun to the foremost culvert.

" _Premi_ _ère ligne de défense_ , _hein_ , Jaune?" humored Avi while fastening the legs against the sandbags.

" _Oui_ ," grunted Corporal Arkos. First to greet the enemy, first to get hit.

The rest of the day was uneventful save for the clearing of the remaining dead from the field.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 10, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 10, 2018**


	11. August 10, 1918

**NOTE: This was supposed to go down differently.**

* * *

 _August 10, 1918_

* * *

As harebrained as this whole plan was, Weiss admitted that it was actually working. She lay flat on her belly under burlap sheets and dirty canvas covering up the crates of ammunition and miscellaneous field supplies intended for the Red Army which were marching en masse alongside them, completely oblivious to the paragon of everything their ideology despised hiding in their midst.

When she first heard it, she nearly protested. They had stopped on the edge of the tree line, just short of exposing themselves from a large—seriously _large_ —concentration of Bolshevik troops resting on the side of the highway, complete with horses and a handful of horse-drawn machine-gun carriages. Course of action? Hide in the back of the supply truck amidst all the junk while the militia would pass themselves off as a band of Leninist vigilantes. That should work, they said.

The fact that the commanding officers of the Bolshevik Seventh Army—yes, it was an entire _army_ numbering in the thousands—bought into it further astounded her. Either they were ridiculously gullible or Mister Dverko and his accomplices were uncannily skilled in deception. Weiss was inclined to believe they were lucky. From the bits of conversation she overheard, she could understand that the Bolsheviks were amassing to 'liberate' Dvinskoy, a village along the Northern Dvina River.

The added firepower of an armored car and the extra ammunition would empower their attack, they believed. Thankfully, the militia sitting in the truck convinced any curious trooper to back off.

And so here she lay, sandwiched between Anya and Olga, their hands clasped tight, biting into her lip to keep from so much as squeaking. The boxes were piled into a wall that concealed the rest of the imperial family and their retinue. If anything went wrong, she could pounce up, leap through the boxes, and deliver them from this mess.

As if!

She may have been a Huntress-in-training specializing in hit-and-run tactics using flexible combative glyphs but those alone could not stave off a whole army surrounding them. She neither had Myrtenaster nor any suitable weapon to use in a melee (pistol-whipping took some effort). She was not some kind of guardian angel Mister Dverko deluded himself into thinking she was, damn it!

Then suddenly, the chassis rumbled over rough ground, pounding her stomach. Her grunt was thankfully muffled by the sudden cries of the soldiers surrounding them. Weiss felt a wave of fear overcome her. Why were they shouting like that? Why was did the truck suddenly pick up speed? Were they found out? What was going on?

What she heard later was the unmistakeable order given by an officer galloping close by the side of the truck.

There. The Allied imperialists. Attack.

* * *

Jaune saw the smoke rising from the river monitors steaming towards Dvinskoy. Which meant more supplies and more men to bolster their numbers. Rumors had spread from their White Russian allies that the Bolshevik Seventh Army was coordinating with the Sixth to encircle them. Anytime soon, they said. An imminent attack, they said.

While Causson initially dismissed it as hearsay, he still ordered the men to be on full alert and advised Avi to keep the Lewis gun properly oiled.

Then, at around eight-thirty that morning, two monarchist cavalry scouts rode up to their lines panting and pointing at the tree line across the lake. They blubbered and sputtered until Causson nodded and directed them further back towards Hillard's thicker line of marines.

Before anyone could ask for a translation, they heard the pops of rifle fire from the woodlands. Bullets tore into the sandbags and Avi opened fire at the white and brown dots that emerged out of the tree line. Jaune took careful aim and dropped one after the other.

So far, the Bolsheviks were using the same massed tactics as before. Except this time, the Red Army came in force—their numbers double than the previous attack and buoyed by something that he had not seen in a long while since leaving France.

" _Ils peuvent faire_ _ç_ _a_!?" blurted Baz.

" _Tais-toi et tire_!" barked Gosse, shooting at the horses carting the machine-gun chariots suppressing them.

"Avi! _Tirez sur les chevaux_!" ordered Causson.

Avi shifted his fire towards the encroaching cavalry until something worse came to the fore: a taxi coated in riveted steel and topped by a cylindrical turret sporting what appeared to be a Russian version of a Chauchat. Jaune leveled his rifle at the glass slits where he was sure the driver's head hid behind until he noticed something.

A bright glow directly behind it. No. Directly behind the truck following it. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. A trick of the brain. He was tired; the fighting and the freezing temperatures were getting to him. Focus, man!

He took aim.

There it was again! That bright blue ball of light that flashed between the truck and then behind the armored car. It was strangely familiar. It was...

No.

No. It couldn't be.

" _Tirez sur les roues_!" commanded Causson.

The blonde corporal held his fire to observe. Those lights. That shape. That circle. That rotating pattern on the circle. It was unmistakeable. He never thought he would see such a thing again and here he stood, gawking dumbly at it, and here out of all places.

A hand clapped hard on his shoulder. "Jaune!"

" _Capitaine_!"

" _Tirez sur les roues_ ," his superior repeated.

Jaune shouldered his rifle and centered his sights on the wheels. Rubber tires. A bullet coming at the right angle with the right amount of force should puncture it and cause it to bog down. He held his breath to contract the spread until the bright light once again stole his attention. This time, he heard his squad mates express their bewilderment at the 'magic circles.'

To the surprise of both the attackers and the defenders, the armored car barreled through Red Army soldiers, blatantly running over them, while its armament remained oddly silent. In fact, the whole damn thing was moving at them with a speed that seemed so unlike a vehicle of that much weight. As though its speed was amplified...

The Bolsheviks running alongside it stopped and started shooting at it. Jaune took aim and downed a few who stopped charging. The car was coming closer and so was the truck behind it.

"Hold fast, boys! We've got your backs!"

About damn time. Jaune allowed a quick glare at Hillard sitting smugly atop his mare, gesturing at the field while British marines filled up the trenches and tripled their defensive firepower. The Bolsheviks had by now dropped prone onto the snow with some retreating back to the cover of the woods. Their charge faltered but the vehicles kept coming.

"Wilfred, the car!" barked Causson.

"Bloody hell, do you see that!?" announced a British soldier.

Jaune saw it. A slim silhouette spinning against the grey clouds then landing gracefully behind the turret, her white ponytail flowing freely behind her. He felt his breath hitch in his throat—his world suddenly ground to a halt.

"... Weiss?"

"Snipers! Take aim!"

* * *

It was all or nothing. This was it. Safety and freedom was only a body of water away.

Weiss knew she had to do something. Somewhere along the way, they ended up carrying the momentum of a charge. The moment she stuck her head out, she caught the bewildered glances of some of the cavalry who were riding alongside them.

That was when she acted. Glyph here. The horses were startled and tumbled into the dirt. Glyph there. She was on top of the truck. Up ahead were lines of fortifications fissured into the earth. Puffs of smoke and flashes from rifles. Round steel helmets that were rare among the Russian armies. The Allies!

Weiss could feel the attention she was getting from some of the soldiers moving on their flanks. With a deep breath, she stood and leapt off, planting two glyphs below her. The vehicles bounded forward at double their horsepower. Twisting her body in the air, she landed directly behind the tower of the armored car as it 'humped' over the unfortunate Bolsheviks caught in its direct path.

Up ahead, she could see the faces of the men sitting in the trenches. Baffled, bewildered, some confused while others ducked their heads. Glancing ahead, she met the eyes of a man sitting on a white horse. Despite the distance, for a brief moment, she could discern something enigmatic about them. As though he was not at all surprised at what should be a mind-blowing spectacle.

By then, she was close enough to hear him give an order in a language that she completely understood.

"Snipers! Take aim!"

* * *

"No!" Jaune screamed. He unhooked his bayonet, snapped it into the holder below the barrel of his rifle, and leapt out.

" _Caporal_!"

"What in God's name is he doing!?"

The blonde corporal ignored them, instead running to meet the oncoming mini-tank. Bullets whizzed by, some meeting their mark—a handful of Bolshevik soldiers collapsed into the dirt while cartridges dented the riveted steel. The vehicle was approaching and so was the truck. They were rapidly closing the distance. He stepped to the side until he could see unguarded wheels. Then he timed his thrust.

Impressively, his bayonet did not break at the pressure of the spools of the front tire. Unfortunately, his body acting as the axle was more than enough strain and he felt his boots dig into the earth as he held his ground, causing the vehicle to veer around him in a full arc.

* * *

Weiss saw a blur before the car suddenly whipped around, effecting a semicircular turn. She wrapped her arms around the tower to keep from being tossed off. Amazingly, she was facing the other side of the field littered with Bolsheviks who were either dead or retreating. Her jaw fell slack.

How?

Who was...?

Then the truck came bounding past. Too fast. She reached out and grabbed hold of the side mirror, pivoting to land on the hood. As the vehicle bounded over the trench, Weiss twisted around to identify the lone interventionist soldier standing above the trenches with his rifle dug into the wheel.

Dirty blonde hair. Grimy flat cheeks. Wide blue eyes. Locked onto hers.

Impossible.

Unbelievable.

Her lips quivered before her body surrendered to the overwhelming fatigue.

"Jaune?"

* * *

Jaune watched curiously the French, British, and White Russian troops leaping out of the way of the speeding truck before it ground to a halt behind the medical tent. When the dust settled, it was swarmed by the rearguard, some hopping over wooden boxes that had spilled out the back. The men emerging from the back of the covered flatbed dropped their guns and raised their hands. They shouted back at the interventionists, gesturing behind them.

A British marine mounted the back, peeked in...and waved back euphorically.

"Precious cargo! Precious cargo!"

" _Nye strelyayte_ , _bratsi_!"

He continued to observe the scene unfold, ignoring the yells of his comrades and the bursts of gunfire sprouting around him. The blonde corporal remained unmoving until he saw two more marines carefully carry the unconscious white-haired girl off the hood and lay her gently onto the ground. Despite the distance, he sharply picked out her undeniable scar.

It really was her. She was here. He wasn't alone.

"Weiss..."

"Jaune!"

Corporal Ionas Arkos acknowledged the call too late. He turned around. And felt something spear him hard in the head, sending his helmet flying and his body dropping limply into the arms of his horrified squad mates.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 11, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 12, 2018**

 **NOTE: Whoops.**


	12. August 15, 1918

_August 15, 1918_

* * *

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Hopeful stare. A uniformed figure shrinking in the distance as she was pulled further and further away. The images vanished when Weiss came to in a modest medical ward.

"Isha?"

She tried to get up only to be held down by soft hands. Her mind took a moment to process her caretaker.

"Anya?"

Anastasia patted her on the arm. "Rest easy, Isha. You have only just woken up."

Weiss stuttered. Where? What? How? "Anya... _chto_..."

"You are fine, Isha. We are safe. We are all safe for sure now. No more running away on our own."

The former heiress was still in a daze. "I don't...understand... What is...?"

"You are still recovering. Stay here and rest. I will get you food and water." And the grand duchess left her in this small room.

Which was rather quaint, she observed. There were three more beds albeit all were vacant. The window was closed but the cold breeze managed to squeeze through the shutters. All in all, it felt like she was in a convalescent home. And that meant...

She raised her hand and tried to channel her Aura. It took some effort and a bit of concentration before her palms shimmered dimly. She pointed at the floor. A small spinning glyph emerged, hovering above the floorboards, then dissipated at the snap of her fingers.

"And I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I first saw it."

Weiss sat ramrod straight, surprised by the sudden presence of a man in a thick fur overcoat, an unfamiliar uniform underneath. He spoke in a strange yet familiar accent with a certain air of confidence about him. He occupied the stool beside her bed.

"The fields of science would be very keen to disprove what you have displayed in this room, Miss Schnee."

"Who are you?" she demanded calmly.

"Captain Wilfred Fennister Hillard, Twenty-First Service Battalion of the Two Hundred and Thirty-Sixth Brigade of His Royal Majesty's Army."

That was a bit too much to take in. So she asked again. "Who are you?"

He smirked. "Captain Wilfred Hillard of the British Army."

British Army? That would mean... "How do you know who I am?"

"Oh. Captain Hillard," greeted Anya from the doorway holding up a tray laden with a cup of warm water and some biscuits.

The officer stood, returned with a bow, and stepped aside to offer the stool. "My apologies, grand duchess. I simply could not contain my interest."

"It is fine," chided the young Romanov as she laid the meal by Weiss's bedside table. "We do not have much right now but this should be enough."

Weiss nodded and slowly, silently ate, aware that the British captain was off the side, observing her as though she was some rare specimen in a laboratory. It gnawed on her and by the time she was done, she asked him, "Now. Would you please explain to me how you knew who I was?"

"I told him," Anya replied. "We are in the company of the Allies now. The British and the French know who we are and that we are here."

"It is our greatest relief that you and the imperial family are safe and sound," he orated. "You have nothing to fear now. The Bolsheviks are far enough away and cannot do you any more harm."

Despite his assurances, the white-haired girl could not help the rising suspicion in her gut. There was something off about him. She could tell he was pandering somehow; she needed to see the rest of her companions. Where were the rest of the Romanovs? Doctor Botkin and the imperial retinue? Mister Dverko and his militia? Where was...

Where was Jaune?

Where was that blonde dolt Jaune Arc?

She saw him. She was sure it was him. He was real. He had to be real!

"Where...where am I? Where are we?"

"Miss Schnee, we are in the beautiful town of Kolmogory, a few kilometers east of Archangel."

"Captain Hillard sailed us up the Northern Dvina on his warships," Anya added. "They had to abandon their defenses, unfortunately."

"A shame, really," he continued. "We had to withdraw from Dvinskoy for your safety and ours. It is but a minor concession to the prize that we have achieved."

"You do not have say such things, captain," amended the young Romanov. "You rescued us and for that we are grateful."

"We are only doing our duty, grand duchess. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to discuss a few things with Miss Schnee."

"Very well."

"In private."

To Weiss's surprise and relief, Anya indented herself closer to her, squeezing her hand with both of hers. "I must have to disagree, captain. Isha has done so much for us in the time that we have been shackled by the Bolsheviks together. She and I have made it clear that we would not hold secrets from each other. That is how dear she is to me. So anything that concerns her concerns me as well."

Oddly, Hillard chuckled and conceded. "Very well. Grand Duchess Romanova, Miss Schnee, many of the men here have been witness to the interesting display showcased during our retreat from Dvinskoy."

Weiss gulped. She remembered now. She disregarded subtlety for safety and now she was sure a whole detachment of friendly soldiers would be curious to know what kind of 'magic' had played a part in their battle.

"Me and my fellow division officers have contained this rumormongering though we cannot suffocate the curiosity of our troops. It would not be long before the high command at Archangel would consider to investigate these 'magical lights and circles.'" The captain had a stern look that managed to pierce through her facade. "For your sake, I would like to know what exactly we have seen that day."

"I..."

"You do not have to answer, Isha," countered Anastasia.

"No," Weiss sighed. "I have to." She then leveled an equal glare back at him. "I have my own questions, as well."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, Anya. So please."

"... Alright."

The white-haired girl breathed deep. And carefully reworded the exposition she granted the Romanovs and their retinue back at Perm. By the time she was done, Hillard appeared rather pleased. Or rather, appeased. Seemingly as though he had a similar idea as to what she was capable of yet needed to hear it from her own mouth. "... So I hope you understand why I had to be discreet."

"Interesting," he mumbled. "This Aura...serves as a...an energy shield of some sort."

"If that is how you would see it, then yes."

Hillard hummed. "And this Semblance...it is unique to every individual yet is not always, how you put it, 'unlocked' as early as yours has been, correct?"

"Exactly as I have said."

"Very interesting indeed. Is that all?"

"For now." She straightened herself, feeling less and less woozy and more in control of her faculties. "I'm not going to entertain any more queries until you answer mine."

"Fair enough. What would you like to know?"

Weiss was careful with her interrogation. She started off with what she wanted to know and the answers were at least sufficient. The Romanovs were well-fed and properly cared for in the town proper where their reception had been rather lukewarm. Doctor Botkin and the rest were accommodated by a certain Captain Chaplin. Mister Dverko and his associates were unavoidably interned and interrogated but would be released shortly. Everything else seemed heavenly with efforts being made to ensure a safe evacuation of the imperial family from Russia.

"And what about us?"

"As part of the imperial retinue, you are obliged to accompany the Romanovs to their safe haven. You can refuse though I could not fathom why you would."

The former heiress nodded. "Where is the safe haven?"

"That I cannot say. I assure you that we are striving to arrange for your departure as soon as possible."

"I see. How are your men?"

Hillard was silent for a moment before speaking, "A few wounded. Thankfully none dead."

"May I see them?"

Anya stared at her. "Isha?"

"Pardon, Miss Schnee?"

Weiss raised her chin. "When I'm well enough, may I see them?"

"May I ask what for?"

"It's personal."

The British officer raised his brow. His confusion slowly morphed into understanding and with a smirk, he said, "You wish to see the man who miraculously stopped a speeding car, namely the one that carried you."

No use in lying. "Yes. I want to...thank him."

"I'm sorry but he is not in my regiment."

"How can that be?"

"He is French. Greco-French, actually. His unit is a part of the French contingent, his direct superior being my friend Captain Émile Causson."

"May I see him? The soldier, I mean."

A stoke of his chin. "I may not be too sure about that."

Weiss felt a vein pop in her head. Her grip tightened around her sheets and Anya must have felt it if the look she was giving her was any indication. "And why is that?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask Émile about it."

"Aren't you allies?" she retorted. "Surely you would at least know the condition of the men under your respective commands."

Hillard nodded. "That is true. However, you are aware that we abide by strict bureaucracies that enforce cohesion among our diverse units." He paused briefly, as if studying her, before continuing, "If you insist to know, I advise you not to take my word for it. The poor lad was nipped by a sniper shortly after pulling his stunt."

And Weiss felt her world crumble. Again. "W-what?"

"Again, I reiterate that my account is not as accurate. If you insist to learn more, Émile is in Archangel together with the boy's squadron."

"H-his what now?"

"His squadron." The British captain noticed someone waving at him outside the window. "He is a sort of celebrity among the troops that even his own mates refuse to leave his side even after the fact. Corporal Ionas Arkos, otherwise known by his alias Forked Lightning, recipient of three Crosses of War and the prestigious French Military Medal."

"Pardon," Anya interjected. "Could you please repeat his name?"

"Ionas Arkos. The French simply call him Jaune Arc." Hillard affixed his cap and strolled towards the door. "I'm sorry but I feel that I have spent enough time here. Thank you for the lovely conversation."

"Likewise," answered the grand duchess.

When he left, Weiss reached up to cup her chin, to stop her jaw from trembling. Jaune was shot. Jaune was shot by a marksman. With a bullet designed to tear through the human body with ease. He could survive that, can he? He did have immense Aura reserves. He should survive that. He is a soldier with a helmet on, damn it!

"Isha...Isha, are you alright?"

"I'm...I'm fine," she croaked. She needed to get to Archangel and find this Causson...find Jaune. She has to see him—she _needed_ to see him. Dolt or no, he was her only link to Remnant and she would be forever damned if he ended up dead before she could...before she could do what exactly? She neither knew nor cared. Jaune was here and she demanded answers.

Slowly, the white-haired girl laid back down on her bed, her hands shaking. "I need...I need to rest for a bit."

"... Do you like to talk about it afterwards?" offered the young Romanov.

Her lips quivered as she nodded. "That would be nice. Thank you."

* * *

Dinner with the Romanovs was a rather lively affair. Contrasted to the gloom of the Ipatiev House, the table was alight with hope and genuine joy. Instead of Commander Yurovsky eying them like a hawk, they were allowed to liberally dine as they had back at Tsarskoye Selo though with a guard posted outside their select room to keep away intruders.

There was much chatter about the future—what to do when they were outside Russia, who to see, where to go, how to live life now that they were in exile, proper treatment for Alexei.

"... The Americans are on their way to bolster the expeditionary forces. President Wilson has been contacted and I believe the matter of our sanctuary is being discussed among his cabinet," conversed Tsar Nicholas.

Weiss had wondered why they were conversing in English until she remembered that they were no longer required to speak in Russian.

"I believe the Greeks can be convinced to offer sanctuary," answered Doctor Botkin.

"What about the Japanese?" interposed Tsaritsa Alexandra.

"I am not very confident about them," her husband admitted. "Doctor, have they been approached regarding asylum?"

"I do not think so."

"Isha, you are not prone to seasickness, are you?"

The white-haired girl stopped eating to look back at the tsar. "I...don't know. Actually, I'm not. No. Sorry for the confusion."

"Is something bothering you?" inquired Alexei from his seat beside his mother.

"Don't pester her, Lyoshka," chided Olga. "Eat slowly, Isha. You must still be a little dizzy."

"I'm worried," Weiss croaked downcast. "Jau—the soldier who...who stopped the car. He was...he had been shot."

The table fell silent. After a moment filled with side glances, Tsar Nicholas opined, "I have heard of this Frenchman. A decorated veteran of the Western Front with medals to his name. As far as I have been made aware, the whole French contingent was recalled to Arkhangelsk. They suffered casualties recently but none too serious."

Weiss and Anya shared a glance. 'None too serious?'

"No...fatalities?"

"None that they have disclosed." The tsar tilted his head, scrutinizing concern leveled at the white-haired girl. "Isha, I can understand your desire to thank the man. He has done a very brave deed in the heat of battle."

She wanted to scream. Instead, she blurted, "I know him." The second round of silence made her look up. With a gulp, she continued, "I...have known him before. If he is who I think he is...we may need to see each other...for my sake and his... I'm sorry. If you'll excuse me..."

With as much courteous polity as she could muster, she departed the room.

* * *

Weiss could see Anastasia's reflection on the window. The grand duchess set down the oil lamp on a table by the door and strode over to where she sat, leaning against the glass, peering emptily below at the dimly lit frozen streets of Kolmogory.

"Ionas Arkos," she started. "Is that his real name?"

The former heiress shook her head.

"What was his name?"

"... Jaune Arc."

"Was that not his French monicker?"

"No. That's his real name." She sighed. "He went to the same school as I did. He was...smitten by me. Never a week passed that he tried to win my affections through some elaborate...scheme."

"You make him sound like a charlatan."

"That was what I thought he was. I was...disdainful of him. Bluffed every attempt at courtship. Countless times have I made it clear that I thought so little of him..."

"Do you think he is still the same person he was before?"

Weiss pressed her head against the glass. "I don't know. I can't be sure if he really is that soldier... I've seen so many that looked like him."

Anya eased next to her. "If he was...would things be different?"

"Things _are_ different, Anya," she answered with a flat glare.

"What would you have said to him?"

"So many...things... So much..." She breathed deep. Why was she feeling teary-eyed? She was not that close to that dolt! "I just...I just want someone to talk to...someone who is from the same place I came from..."

"Are you saying that this Jaune Arc is from...your world?"

Weiss nodded. "I want to feel that I'm not the only one of my kind. I...I don't want to be this alone anymore."

The grand duchess took her in an embrace. "No matter the case, Isha, you are never alone."

"Thank you, Anya," she wept. " _Spasibo bolshoye_."

* * *

Darkness. That was all Jaune could see. When he would dream, it would be some twisted fantastical replay of that day when he saw white hair and pale skin morphing around with her glyphs. And then he would awake to his temporal blindness.

It lasted for what felt like days before the wraps around his head finally came off. The sight of his face astonished all those surrounding his bed. Causson was wide-eyed but not as greatly nonplussed as Baz, Avi, and Gosse. Much less the surgeon who extracted the bullet from his head and the attending nurse who was muttering something along the lines of a miracle or something.

Jaune raised his hand to stroke his chin. Then his cheeks. Up the bridge of his nose to his forehead... A depression between his eyes. Folded skin and tissue.

He was shot in the head.

And fucking survived.

Normally, he would have cursed his good fortune and likewise his Aura which not only seemed to have blocked a lethal bullet but also extensively repaired the damage done to his cranium. He should have been a dead man with his brain splattered across the snow.

"Jaune..."

" _Caporal_..."

" _C'est un miracle_."

" _Je ne_... _je ne comprends pas_ ," muttered the surgeon.

" _Bienvenue_ _à_ _nouveau_ , Jaune," finally greeted Causson. " _Nous pensions que tu_ _é_ _tais mort_."

Jaune nodded. He thought he was. The nurse placed something on his bedside table; a tray containing crumpled lead fragments. The blonde corporal fingered a piece.

In over a year since being drafted, he had been subjected to the horrors of war and the gruesome injuries that came with it. He had been shot, stabbed, shelled... And not even a direct bullet to the head could stop this once fearful boy who had a natural forcefield surrounding his body. He was basically indestructible.

" _Pourquoi_... _pourquoi suis-je en vie_?" he mumbled.

His squad responded with a motley of answers ranging from being blessed with God's hand to being lucky to being a sure sign that they were destined for good things in the future.

" _Vous_ _ê_ _tes sp_ _é_ _cial_ ," remarked Causson.

Yes. He was special. Jaune looked up to see his superior looking out the window at the crowded evening streets of Archangel. " _Oui_ , _Capitaine_. _Je le suis_."

"... _La fille l'est aussi_."

The blonde corporal snapped his gaze at the officer's back. Unlike the doctor and his aide, his squad remained by his side, themselves equally interested at the mention of the mysterious white-haired girl.

" _Vous la connaissez_."

Jaune breathed deep.

"Is that why you disrupted the British marksmen to stop that car the way you did?" interrogated the French captain, a sharp glower piercing through to his soul.

"They were going to shoot her," the blonde corporal weakly defended.

"They were going to shoot the tires."

"I did not think they would—"

"You nearly caused an armored car to fall on top of your comrades' heads!" snarled Causson.

Jaune could feel the rigidness of his squad mates; poor bastards couldn't speak English but could understand anger without words.

His superior took a moment to calm himself then inquired, "Who was that girl?"

He sighed. He couldn't lie to him. But could he lie to the three other men in the room? He had only known Baz, Avi, and Gosse since meeting them on the docks at Flanders. They had not bonded much yet they showed such solidarity. Could they not see that he would carelessly be leading them to their deaths soon? He had done it before and they knew it. Why was he tormented by followers too willing to be unavoidable casualties? Why was he cursed with these deluded idiots?

"Jaune. Who was that girl?"

He could trust Causson. "Her name is Weiss Schnee."

"You are telling me her name is Snow White? Do I look humored to you?"

"No! That's her real name!" insisted the private with a clenched fist. "If it means something ridiculous then that's a damn coincidence. Her name is Weiss Schnee. Sir."

His superior appeared very unamused but continued. "How do you know her?"

"She was my...classmate."

"She was a student at the _Acad_ _é_ _mie_?"

Jaune painfully nodded. "Yes. Yes, she was."

"Her name means Snow White in German. She studied at a prestigious French institution. And she left before the outbreak of hostilities?"

"No." He cleared his throat. "She was stubborn. Her father wanted to pull her out but she refused. She wanted to be...to be someone other than what her father would have wanted her to be." At least, that was what he understood from the clues he got from team RWBY...wherever they were. "So she stayed up until the very end when I last saw her, fighting alongside _us_ , fending off the...enemy because we were her _friends_. She's a good person and not some spy for the Kaiser!"

It was too late to recover from his outburst. Jaune remained rigid sitting up on his bed, his knuckles tightly pale over his sheets.

"I never hinted that she was," Causson countered placidly.

"I...felt that it needed to be clarified. Sir." The blonde corporal felt like wilting under his heavy frown.

"Much like you, she is also special," intoned his superior. "It appears that there is more to you than what we know. Tell me, Jaune. Are you really from Greece?"

He gulped. He looked around. Baz, Avi, and Gosse, confused as ever, shrugged. They would get a translation later. Or not. Maybe they would be later ordered to forget about what they were witnessing here. "I'm not as Greek as I look, huh."

"I can wait for the truth." Causson stopped short of his bed frame. He checked his watch and glanced once more at the starless night outside the window. "I am hoping that we can understand each other better in the coming days. Know that this stays between us."

Jaune nudged his head at the three stooges. "What about them?"

His squad mates stiffened before the captain chuckled. " _Cela d_ _é_ _pend de vous_ ," he imparted on his way out the ward.

" _Alors de quoi vous parliez_?" asked Baz not a moment later. "Jaune?"

Jaune sighed. " _C'est une l_ _ongue histoire_." If he could trust Causson, then maybe he could trust his teammates—no, _squad_ -mates—with something this sensitive. He did not miss the idle talk about him apparently 'glowing' in the middle of the battlefield.

Later that night, Baz, Avi, and Gosse left Jaune alone in the ward with a solid promise to keep his secrets between themselves...and the captain, of course, who had been leaning against the doorframe outside, listening intently the whole time.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 13, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 15, 2018**

 **NOTE: How's my French so far?**


	13. August 17, 1918

_August 17, 1918_

* * *

Their arrival at Arkhangelsk was not as ceremonial as Weiss would have expected. There was no honor guard, no cheering public, no royal comforts to be had. It was the same as riding into a city placed under martial rule.

Different flags rippled above main headquarters. Scenic as it was, it felt little changed since the Bolsheviks were expelled. The aptly-named Supreme Administration of the Northern Region was leaning along the same political lines, being far more lenient and passive than the extreme ends of employed by the followers of Lenin and Trotsky.

Weiss stayed close to the imperial family as they were ushered past the railway station where a hundred or so Red Army prisoners in uniform overcoats were lined against the rail cars, many of whom unceremoniously glared and threw insults at the Romanovs and their escorts. The patrolling British sentries were too ignorant of the Russian language to do anything other than yell at them in English to shut up.

Their stride to the administrative offices of the provisional government was guarded and never replete with curious onlookers. Whispers and the occasional taunt or cheer would echo from the crowds but none too raucous to cause a riot. And finally, the meeting with the Allied high command...

"I am not aware of anyone going by the name of Schnee," remarked Lieutenant General Frederick Poole, chief commander of the Allied interventionists in Northern Russia. "Then again, I am not well versed in the personalities of the Imperial Russian court. How shall we register you in the papers?"

"Weiss Schnee will have to do, general," she answered formally.

"Very well. You have a German name and yet you pronounce it differently."

"I get that a lot."

"And you sound very American," he continued while noting details on the paperwork on his desk. "By the way you carried yourself into this room, I am inclined to believe that you have had an aristocratic upbringing."

"I have."

A harrumph. "Do you have any family members or relatives we should notify?"

Weiss maintained her composure. She used to think she was alone in this world. Jaune's presence confirmed that it was possible for others to be here as well. How could she know? Ruby? Yang? Blake? Ren and Nora? Anyone from Remnant could be out there somewhere in another part of the world. Then again, how could she know for sure?

She had to take a risk. If it didn't work, and it was probably coincidental, at least it would keep away prying eyes. If it didn't...perhaps she could get them to look hard enough.

"Jacques and Willow Schnee. Parents. Winter Schnee, older sibling. Whitley Schnee, younger sibling."

"Residency?"

She had no idea. Germany? Repeatedly had she been mistaken for a German with an American tongue. America, maybe. Or Britain? She decided to avoid dishonesty. "I don't know."

General Poole raised a brow. Then he wrote something down before proceeding with the rest of the questions to which she mostly answered with the same ignorance as a lost child. She caught the strange looks shared between the other officers, especially the bearded White Russian administrators whose intense scrutiny reminded her so much of Commander Yurovsky.

After the meeting was adjourned, they were led back to the reception hall where Hillard greeted them alongside another man.

"Miss Schnee, this is Captain Émile Causson."

"Good afternoon, _mademoiselle_. You must be Weiss Schnee," he offered with a polite bow.

"I am," she answered with as much control as she could muster. She was close to Jaune now. Hillard had been vague about the dolt which led her to try to read the French officer who should have been his superior. So far...no sadness, no regret. Only...tiredness. Or he was rather skilled at concealing his emotions. "I have heard about one of your men."

"Ah, yes. _Foudre Fourchue_. Forked Lightning. Fiery young man."

"How...is he?"

"He is recovering from his wounds."

He's alive. He's alive! Jaune is alive! Weiss was biting down on her lip when she asked, "May I see him?"

Strangely, Causson beamed. "Of course."

* * *

Weiss walked with Causson through the corridors of the city's hospital, passed the curious eyes of many injured Red Army prisoners-of-war, towards the wing that accommodated the French casualties. In her hand was the steel blue helmet that he had said belonged to Corporal Ionas Arkos. Her thumbs squeezed the interior. Despite a thorough cleaning, the faded smears of blood—his blood, Jaune's blood—were still visible against the paint. She held tightly onto it as they meandered into a small ward occupied by three healthy soldiers standing idle. They quickly snapped to attention around an unmade bed in the corner.

Causson stopped in his tracks, puzzled, and looked around. He barked something at them and they relaxed. They were now staring at her, wide-eyed.

" _O_ _ù_ _est-il_?" he asked.

The door to the lavatory creaked open as a figure emerged with a towel draped over his shoulder.

Weiss felt her breath hitch in her throat. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A hideous scar on the side of his head?

"Jaune?"

The three men slowly turned to the Corporal Ionas Arkos who remained cemented where he stood, his lips quivering.

"W-w-weiss?"

"Jaune Arc? Is that you?" the former heiress asked weakly, her own hands trembling. She wanted to touch him. To know that he was real! That was he was not some twisted figment of her imagination conjured in bouts of suppressed grief.

"Weiss... Weiss Schnee," he breathed as he gripped the doorframe to counter his legs nearly buckling. "... Snow Angel?"

And the dam broke.

* * *

Jaune felt a myriad of emotions.

There she was. Weiss Schnee. Snow Angel. The 'W' to team RWBY. The white-haired heiress to the Schnee Dust Company who had once been the object of his affection, who stood firm in the desperate fight to contain the Grimm, who—like him—had been taken from Remnant by some sadistic deity and thrown into this world that never tired of inflicting pain on its inhabitants.

"... Snow Angel?"

Weiss was crying. She was crying when she closed the gap and gripped his arm. Her warm fingers graced over his skin, reaching up to his cheek. And she pulled back. Looking at her palm as though she had touched a festering carcass.

Jaune reached up and caressed his own scar. Was she repulsed by it? For a girl who had her own running down her left eye—

"You're real," she muttered, wiping away her tears. "Jaune Arc, you're real."

"I'm real, Weiss," he repeated, slowly regaining control of his limbs. "And so are you."

Nothing else mattered. He could care less who else was in this room. Right now, he was ecstatic with relief. A year of being alone, enduring a war on his own, seeing the horrors of man firsthand. He had given up hope long ago and embraced the inevitability of death then constantly raving at his Aura for denying him a release from this hell.

Now... Now here was an angel. A snow angel. Here was hope. Cupping his hands with hers, looking up at him, a face that used to glower at his attempts at flirting. His former crush—is she still?—silently pleaded for something. What could he give her?

He was not a knight anymore. Far from the Huntsman he aspired to be. In retrospect, he had not been a hero, no matter what they say, his medals be damned. He was just a scared boy, drafted to fight in a war he had no knowledge of, and had killed his first man before his eighteenth birthday. Outside of war, it was murder. Others would say his deeds were justified, conducted within the full auspices of war, but what about those who foolishly followed him in those suicidal charges?

What did that make him?

"Weiss, I..." he stammered, "I...I'm not...I'm not the same Jaune..."

She let go. "And I'm not the same Weiss."

What? "Huh?"

"I've been here for a year now. A lot has happened since then." She regarded him. "Can I say the same about you?"

"You're not wrong."

"Jaune...whatever you've done...doesn't change the fact that you're you. You're still Jaune Arc and you're here with me. I'm not alone anymore."

"Likewise," he echoed.

"Why...do you sound like that?" she slowly demanded. "Aren't you...aren't you happy to see me? Your stupid crush from Beacon—"

"Weiss," he hissed. "I've spent a year here too."

She looked hurt. He didn't mean it. "Jaune...where have you been?"

"France. I've bled more than I could've ever imagined. I...I've killed."

"You're a soldier," she reasoned. "You...fought. You had to fight. You were...you had a duty to uphold..."

"What duty? You know who I am, what we..." Jaune stopped himself. Causson was standing back there, nonchalantly observing their exchange. Does he actually know? "You know that I've become far from what we were taught to be."

"It doesn't matter!" Weiss snapped. "What happened to you?"

" _War_ , Weiss. War happened to me!" The blonde corporal raised a finger to his new scar. "This...a sniper did this to me. That day that I saw you on that car...a sniper got me right here."

"B-but you're alive and—"

"If it wasn't for Aura, I would have been dead in a muddy trench on my first day!" he growled. Damn it, he cared less if Causson heard that. "I've had to experience this over and over again for a year. I've been wounded more times than I can count. The fucking pain of it all..."

The gap between them widened. Weiss appeared mortified as Jaune harped on.

"I tried making friends, Weiss. I tried. And every time...every time we'd charge out into the open and get ripped apart. I would always be the sole survivor." His fists were tight and shaking. "I broke. I cracked. That's what happened. I've been through hell and I fucking cracked like a glass vase."

Silence.

"You're not the only one," she finally said.

Jaune blinked. "What?"

Weiss glared daggers into him. "I've been witness to systematic abuse to a family that deserved none of it. I may not have experienced the front lines as you have but that does not mean that I am not indifferent to your struggles!" She stomped close. "We were nearly executed! We ran through the woods, pursued by an army, low on food and sleep, freezing in the snow just to escape with our lives! The tsar is powerless and his son is sick! How do you think we managed this long!?"

The blonde corporal stuttered.

* * *

The former heiress raised her hand to the wall and manifested a glyph, ignoring the astonished reactions of the three other soldiers, one of whom let out a yelp and landed on his bum on the floor.

"This is harder for me to do now, you know."

"But you're better than me! H-how—"

She cut him off. "And risk my own life? People would accuse me of being a witch!"

"You could have escaped earlier."

"At the cost of the Romanovs?" She really felt like crying. Why was this? "No matter what others say, they're still human beings who love and care for each other. I escape, I'm on my own, facing a nation up in arms that would take no quarter. At best, I can outrun a mob but I can't hold back an army. I had to stay, Jaune. I had to stay and be quiet because of them."

Weiss dissipated the glyph and wiped her face with the sleeve of her coat. In her hand was his helmet, the interior partially colored by the smears of his dried blood.

"You and I have been through a lot," she said. "If we're going to suffer, can we at least suffer together?"

A light scoff. "That's pretty strong coming from you."

"I don't care about that anymore. As a friend..." They were friends, right? Not as closest but still amicable. "...I don't want to see you hurting alone."

* * *

Jaune hung against the wall. Two against the world, huh. That sounded better than trudging aimlessly along. Here was a chance at direction, an olive branch of guidance. Did Weiss have a goal in mind? She almost always had. He lost his a long time ago.

"We still have a mission to do, you know," he informed her. He eyed Causson, seeing either indifference or no sign of approval. "We might take a while."

"I would be willing to wait," she countered.

"What about the imperial family? Don't they need you?"

Weiss appeared conflicted. "You can be our escorts."

He shook his head. "Weiss, we may be on reserve right now but we have an overarching job here."

"Can't you pull some strings?"

Once again looked, he past her shoulder at his superior.

"I would be doing much by entertaining her request, Jaune," Causson said.

Weiss turned around to contest. "Surely, captain, you can be relegated to other duties."

"I am sorry, _mademoiselle_. You will have to convince the high command of that."

She tried to argue only for Jaune to place a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Weiss. You're better off staying with the imperial family. I'll do my best to keep myself in one piece." He breathed deep. "For your sake."

"Don't say that! We can work around this."

Jaune took his helmet from her hands. "I can't guarantee things will be quiet but I will sincerely try to live through it. Trust me on that. After all, I can't desert my post, especially here." Besides, these three stooges stuck to him like glue and he hated to see them in the company of someone less. "Funny coincidence. I'm being discharged today."

She folded her arms, her long ponytail rippling to the side as she thudded her heel on the floor. Classic Weiss. "Promise me you will not end up in a hospital again."

He smiled. It felt so good to do so after so long. "I'll do my best, Snow Angel."

And Weiss smiled back.

"Ah, _excusez-moi_ ," issued Baz. " _Mais_ _qu'est-ce qui vient de se passer_?" Right. The three stooges had been standing around, watching the whole exchange, understanding nothing of what had been said.

" _Je te dirai plus tard_ ," Jaune replied. He would tell them later if Causson wouldn't.

* * *

"How was he?" asked Anya.

Weiss waited until she was done brushing her hair before replying, "He is the same dolt as before."

"Something must have changed."

"Yes. He has changed much."

The grand duchess sat on her bed, one of two in their shared quarters in the inn closest to the provisional government offices. "You were gone almost the entire day at the hospital."

"We met, talked, and had tea with his comrades-in-arms at the gardens." A guarded conversation that was but refreshing nonetheless. Weiss was completely grateful for it despite the constant mistranslations and the lewd teasing from Jaune's squadron.

"Will you see him again?"

She hoped and prayed she would despite the circumstances. "... I don't know. I hope he won't be deployed far."

Anya smirked. "You missed him dearly. You say he was a pest but he seems to be more than that to you."

"Need I remind you that I have also changed in the past year," the former heiress snarled poorly.

"For better or for worse?" teased the young Romanov.

Try as she might, Weiss could not sound intimidating. "I have had an eventful day, Anya. Please don't end it this way."

"I almost thought you two would have eloped already—" Anya giggled, rolling out of the way of the hairbrush that came flying at her. "Two friends who have not seen each for so long now finally meeting. The denouement for act three of _Freylina_ Schnee's life story!"

She cared for a _friend_! She was _not_ as heart-strung as those damsel characters in those predictable romantic tragedies. "Enough with the nonsense already."

"Is that why you were so adamantly against forming friendships with the handsome servants at Tsarskoye Selo?"

"Be quiet, you! People are trying to sleep."

"It is still too early."

"I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Anya."

"Going to dream about your friend, the corporal?"

A sigh. "Goodnight, Anya."

Another chuckle. "Goodnight, Isha."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 14, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 1, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 17, 2018**

 **NOTE: I hope I handled their reunion well.**


	14. August 21, 1918

_August 21, 1918_

* * *

Liberty was bittersweet. Weiss was once again constrained alongside the imperial family by the Allies who had proven to be fearful that something untoward might happen to them. Ironic how they were kept as prisoners by the Bolsheviks. Now, they were restricted with heavy security by their rescuers to avoid anything such as an assassination or something of the sort ever happening.

That did not entirely spell gloom for the most part and the past few days were not entirely dull. They went on walks, sometimes to the chagrin of their British bodyguards who had to fend off the crowds, and took up old hobbies that they were once denied while still remaining observant of the political tides.

The tsar, particularly, had quickly discerned that the Allies were unsure where to exile them. The British and the French remained adamantly unwilling not to mention an intense offensive on-going in Western Europe. The Greeks were still reeling from a coup. The Japanese were...untrustworthy. The Spanish and the Portuguese have yet to be approached while the Italians had not given any sufficient answer. That left the Americans.

Which seemed rather suitable. Valish, the dominant language on Remnant, was almost a carbon copy of English. Weiss wondered whether life in the United States would be similar to life on Vale or Atlas a hundred years before she was born.

Additionally, at the insistence of the international media, a handful of journalists were granted audience with the imperial family and their companions. The same questions were asked—how did you escape; where did you go; what was it like running from the Bolsheviks...

It was the same old charade from home except a hundred years more archaic. Weiss adapted easily though she had to fend off the budding curiosity stemming from her unusual appearance (and the rumors of her Semblance). It was only after she had finally entertained her last batch of reporters that she was given a copy of a British newsletter.

Flipping through the pages yielded her an interesting column story that enraptured her:

 _Forked Lighting: France's Fieriest Foot-soldier_

Now Weiss had a greater understanding of Jaune's experiences on the front lines. Filtered as the article was, it provided enough to allow her to imagine what he had been through.

So she interviewed some of the war corresponders about Forked Lightning, guarding her queries to not give any hints of interest. Come afternoon, Weiss was in deep thought piecing together the details while sipping her tea in the restaurant of the inn that accommodated them. Jaune Arc had indeed come far since then. No longer was he the bumbling fool of a knight severely lacking in skill with the sword. She had to admit she was impressed yet at the same time worried. This war had broken him and it showed.

"Are you sure you are not being bothered, _freylina_?" asked Mister Dverko as he nibbled on his biscuits. "Pardon for my observation but you look like something bit your leg and laid its eggs in the bone."

"Ugh. Nothing...to concern yourself with," she answered with a wince.

" _Razve_? I have heard that you have had an intimate relationship with one of the French soldiers."

Weiss nearly spat out her tea. "Where in the world did you hear that garbage!?"

The former farmer laughed. "It is true then?"

"You know I can send you flying out the window."

He stiffened. " _Izvinitye_ , _freylina_. I was only making light banter."

"I told you. Stop pandering. I am not a noblewoman."

"I find it hard to treat you the same way I treat my _batraki_."

"Regardless, I reiterate that I am no way romantically involved with anyone."

The look on his face was clearly doubtful. "Others have said that you are good friends with a decorated veteran from the West."

"That is true."

"And that you have once eloped during the war. Or was that before the revolution?"

Weiss twitched. "Don't pay attention to rumors. They are detrimental to your health."

Mister Dverko laughed. "I am only...how do the British say it? 'Lightening the mood.' You are very serious, _freylina_. Enjoy some humor. You are safe now."

She sighed, stewing over her steaming cup, her solemn gaze settling on the cobblestone street outside. "I'm...worried for him. The soldier. My friend. He...he might get hurt and..." A growl. "I sound ridiculous."

"There is no shame in worrying for a loved one."

"Please do not refer to my rela—err—correspondence with that dolt as such."

" _Tak semya_? You are perhaps siblings? He is a brother or a cousin?"

"A friend. Just a friend. Nothing more, nothing less."

"A friend who you have not seen in a long time. And now that you have, you are feeling very worried. I can understand that," he rasped warmly. "And who knows? If you are feeling some, ah, _romanticheskiy interes_ then why not entertain it?"

"I would rather you not entertain this nonsense."

"Ah, _no pochemu ty protiv otnosheniy_?" Why the aversion to such a relationship? The answer was simple.

" _Potomu chto ya_... _ya_... _u menya yest_..." Weiss stammered. What exactly was that simple answer? Jaune and her could be such a thing. It was...not repulsive. It only did not...seem to work. Yes. It was non-compatible. There were reasons for that. Distance, time, and personality. Besides, she would rather be romantically linked with someone else. Right? In the first place, was she willing to wade in these waters? "It's complicated."

Silence. The former farmer leaned back and said, "You know, the French have met with the British on the Onega Bay this morning. I do not know what they will do next but there is talk that they might try to liberate Karelia and maybe attempt an attack on _Sank-Peterburg_. It...will be bloody if they will try that."

"Jaune is in a supporting role," she blurted. "The marines should be doing the main fighting. His unit shouldn't be relegated to the front!"

"So you wish not for _Kapral_ Arkos not to be hurt, _da_?"

"I...I wish him well. He...he shouldn't be foolish and...and charge into battle recklessly."

"You should write him a letter."

More silence. Why would she write him a letter? What could either of them gain from it? Perhaps there was no harm in maintaining communication. Anything to lift her spirits...

Weiss stared out the window down at the street where Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanova chatted with curious passersby while surrounded by a detachment of American riflemen. The undying smile on her face, radiating hope despite the odds, and laughing with those who used to taunt her family's name upon their arrival. If only she had her optimism, her penchant for happiness...

" _Freylina_ , _ty yego lyublyesh?_ "

"That's ridiculous!" she snapped, her tea nearly spilling out of her half-empty cup. Her outburst silenced the restaurant and she smoothed herself before continuing softly, "Please, Semyon Klementovich, stop asking these things."

Mister Dverko nodded, finished his water, and stood. With a bow and an unreadable smile, he said, "I am sorry for pressing the matter. However, allow me to advise you. Do not deny what you feel or it will hurt you more than that cut that gave you your scar. _Do svidanya_ , _freylina_."

Weiss wished she could ignore what he said but his words rang in her head for the rest of day.

* * *

Jaune and his squadron found their nice little spot along the icy beaches facing westwards towards the Onega Bay and in the further distance the forested mounds of Karelia. The four men settled comfortably under the shade of an overhanging tree, grateful that there was little for them to do now that the main bulk of the British forces had attained their objectives. They maximized their down time by resting from their long march.

Of course, that meant prime time for Baz, Avi, and Gosse to bring up the same crap they had been picking at him with since his fateful reunion with Weiss: their ridiculous bastardized 'fairy tale' of the Yellow Huntsman—how fitting—coming to the rescue of Snow White and the seven Romanovs.

" _Donc_ , _Monsieur_ Jaune," snickered Avi. " _Lettres de Demoiselle Blanc_?"

Jaune scowled at him.

" _Parle anglais_ ," added Gosse with a laugh. " _Si tu veux qu'il parle d'elle_."

Baz cleared his throat and adopted his best impersonation of a British falsetto accent. "Ah, Mister Arkos. Miss me you, _ma ch_ _é_ _rie_?"

"One more word out of you," sneered the blonde corporal.

A round of sniggers. "Ooh! _Il parle maintenant_!"

Jaune groaned. " _Putain de merde_..."

"No need for that kind of talk, Jaune," chastised Causson.

Heads turned and nodded to acknowledge their captain striding to their midst.

" _Capitaine_ , I thought you killed the rumors, already," Jaune groused.

A shrug. "You cannot kill curiosity. _Il n'y a pas de honte à ressentir de l'affection_."

" _C'est juste une amie_ ," Try as he might, he could not turn away from the smug grins of his squad mates. They were just being stupid and his superior was only feeding the damn joke.

The officer placed his hand on his shoulder. " _Du calme_ , Jaune. It is normal to harbor intense feelings for those you care deeply about."

" _Capitaine_ , _je ne—_ "

"You are friends. Close friends. That much is apparent. Cherish it." And with a parting grin, the captain left them to check on the the rest of the company lying idly about along the beach.

Jaune huffed, enduring the teasing until they started talking about something else. He had already gotten over Weiss; that was loud and clear. Final. Done. Weiss was over him, he was over her. They were friends now, closer than ever but short of crossing _that_ line. So why the hell was he constantly thinking of her?

It was probably the cold.

* * *

That night, Weiss sequestered herself on her desk staring at her reflection in the mirror.

"Should I leave you alone?" asked Anya.

"You don't have to go," she answered.

"It's okay, Isha. I understand." With her disarming smile, the grand duchess excused herself from their shared room to be with her sisters across the hall.

Weiss released the breath she had been holding when the door clicked shut. She was only expressing concern. Because there is a civil war going on and lives were on the line. This was only a means to assuage her anxiety for those involved in the fighting, a medium of comfort for both parties. Taking a moment to compose her thoughts, she picked up the fountain pen and started writing...

 _Dear Jaune..._

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 17, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 20, 2018**


	15. August 24, 1918 - ACT I end

_August 24, 1918_

* * *

"Mail's here! Get your mail!"

Jaune watched the British infantry flock to the herald, each man receiving his due letter. Not long after, the French followed. That left him sitting leaning against a tree while his squad mates excitedly read through their messages from home. Ignoring them, he went back to gazing at the waves of the White Sea lapping at the shores of East Karelia, another landmark distance achieved by the Allies in this campaign, bringing them ever closer to the anti-Bolshevik Finns.

" _Courrier_! _Courrier_!"

The herald continued barking out, hoisting up a brown envelope that seemed to be the last one in his stack.

"Anyone? Last letter!" Exasperated at the empty responses, he read aloud the name. "This is for...Arkos! Ionas Arkos!"

Jaune snapped to the courier as every set of eyes angled towards him. He was just as surprised as everyone else that he was getting mail. He had no one waiting on him, no one he knew in this godforsaken world who would—wait.

"Ah, this is for you, sir."

The blonde corporal flipped the envelope over. His name was written on the back. In handwriting unmistakeable.

"Weiss?"

He ripped it open and pulled out the folded letter. What the hell could she be writing to him for?

 _Dear Jaune_

What would she write to him about?

 _I hope this finds you in good health._

He stifled a snort. He was always in 'good health,' life-threatening injuries be damned by his Aura.

 _No transports have arrived for us yet. The high command happened to be annoyingly indecisive about where to exile the imperial family. It seemed half the world is unwilling to shelter them._

Jaune wondered why that was so. Politics, perhaps? Did she want to talk about politics? With him out of all people?

 _I admit that things have been rather dull lately. There has not been much for us to do and we have had a rigorous guard detail keeping us company every hour of the day. I do not mean to seem ungrateful but there is a lack of activity on our part to keep us occupied. Governor Tchaikovsky does not want us to be seen in public very often. I do not trust that man despite his amicability._

 _And that brings me to a certain point I wish to address. Know, Jaune Arc, that as a friend, I am very concerned for your well-being. There have been skirmishes to the east and more wounded are pouring into the hospitals. The more I see the injured, the more I am reminded of the things you have said about your experiences in the war. I have read the news articles about you. I am genuinely sorry for all that has happened to you._

The blonde corporal wanted to scoff at that. She was only buttering him up. What was the catch here? What favor did she want out of him? Knowing her, she could not be that worried about him. Was she? It has been a year after all. So much can happen in a year. He was no longer the same Jaune. Then again, she was not the same Weiss.

 _To be bluntly honest, I cannot help but imagine the worst happening to you. It pains me to think of it. I am constantly reminded of Beacon..._

Goddamn it, Weiss. Stop bringing it up.

 _...and what happened to Pyrrha._

Jaune wanted to crumple the letter. His fingers trembled as droplets spread over the paper. Forcing down a gulp, he trudged past his squad to their dug-out. He snuggled into his corner and continued reading.

 _Please take care of yourself. Do not be reckless in battle. Rein in your battle lust. I do not want to lose another friend. It hurts me as much as it hurts you. Know that you are not the only one who would suffer if your Aura breaks._

"Damn it, Weiss. Leave me alone," he whimpered.

"That is not a wise wish, Jaune."

Jaune folded the letter and stuffed it inside his satchel. Wiping his face, he glared at Causson standing under the foliage concealing their foxhole. " _Oui_ , _Capitaine_?"

"I am not going to question the contents."

"She's...she's being ridiculous."

"Do you wish to talk more of it?"

He didn't want to but his mouth was on autopilot. "I want her to stop worrying about me. It puts me on edge. It...makes me nervous. And pressured. I don't want to be pressured to survive. Just let me do my thing..."

"Do you want her to be hurt?"

"What?" he recoiled. "No!"

"Then be wise about your temperament. And your judgment." Causson produced a pen from his front pocket and handed it to him. "Ask the quartermaster for paper."

Jaune shook his head. " _Non_ , _non_ , _Capitaine_. I don't—"

"Jaune." The officer looked him dead in the eye. "She is asking for comfort. Are you going to deny her that?"

No. No, he could not. Despite what the rest of him wanted to say, he could not leave Weiss hanging like this. He sat back down on the wooden munitions box, catching the last lines of the letter.

 _For my sake, Jaune, if not for yours. I have been alone long enough. It is a painful thing and I am sure you have felt the same way. The imperial family is wonderful company and I am sure your squad is too but you and I both understand the depths of our solitude. I do not want to be alone again._

 _Please take care._

 _Weiss._

He sighed. Damn it, Weiss. Damn it. He read the letter again. And again. "Fine. I'm fine, Weiss."

Later that day, ignoring the smug looks from his squad mates, he retreated behind the earthworks lining the shore, away from the main French body. He tapped his chin and bit his nails until he finally came up with something sufficient. At least Causson's fountain pen didn't leak.

 _Dear Weiss..._

* * *

Weiss was laughing alongside the Romanov siblings as they bickered around the chessboard out on the inn's walled gardens.

"You were beaten in four moves!" jeered Anastasia.

"You got lucky," chirpily protested the young prince Alexei. "Also, Olga played this more than I have."

"I was only thinking straight," chuckled the older sister while Maria and Tatiana reset the board.

"You were not wrong in being aggressive," Weiss offered. "But do not always throw your best reserves immediately into the fray. Bishops, knights, and rooks are not exactly expendable, Lyoshka."

Alexei groaned playfully. "Of course, Isha. I would know that."

"I'm sure you would."

The white-haired girl heard boots thudding against the cobblestone path that snaked through the grass. She turned to greet the imperial couple. And easily caught the brief forlorn expression on their faces. To his credit, Tsar Nicholas quickly recast his mien and beamed brightly back at his children.

" _Dobriy den_ , Nikolay Aleksandrovich," she greeted. "You were a bit off there."

"Nothing to worry you about, Isha."

Weiss raised her brow. "You stubbed your toe?"

That elicited a chuckle. "No. Only that some things never change despite the weather."

What was that supposed to mean? The tsar rarely used metaphors. What was he trying to say to her?

"It has been particularly cloudy and the snow would start falling again soon," added Tsaritsa Alexandra.

Weiss pressed curiously. "Is there something in the air?"

The tsar sighed. "Let it be, Isha."

"Is it...about the ships? Our...exile?"

Tsaritsa Alexandra smiled sadly. "Do not fret over it. God willing, things will get better. Enjoy your game. We need to rest for a bit."

The former heiress nodded, watching them disappear into the lobby and up the stairs passing flanks of rigid American sentries. Anya snaked her arm around hers.

"What made them so worried?" the grand duchess asked.

"Hopefully nothing too important," Weiss answered nervously. Everything had been going so well for the past few days. Too well, the more she thought about it. She did not want to test her luck but she could not disregard the strange feeling in her stomach. The passing glances from the White Russian officers, especially Captain Chaplin, and the rumors of disagreements between the Allied high command and the Arkhangelsk government were subtle signs. Tsar Nicholas's obvious distress was an obvious clue.

Something was definitely in the air. This time, whatever it would be, Weiss would be ready for it.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 21, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 1, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 23, 2018**

 **NOTE: And here ends the first act. This was meant to be a one-off but the ideas kept flowing so here we are. The reception has been encouraging and I've already got ideas for a second act.**

 **For now, expect an interlude or something of the sort. But know that Jaune and Weiss would no longer be the only fragments of Remnant to be thrown into this lovely, fragile exploding rock of ours that we call Earth.**


	16. INTERLUDE - September 1-3, 1918

_September 1, 1918_

* * *

Weiss was having mid-morning tea with the grand duchesses when she overheard their British escorts idly chatting loudly outside the lounge. Her convenient seating nearest to the window where their guards stood about enabled her to hear every word. She hated to eavesdrop and very nearly turned her head away when she heard,

"...big black wolf. Poor sod was unrecognizable."

"He was a hunter, right? You think he bit off more than he could chew?"

"That's what it looks like. Can you believe it? Claw marks that deep? His neck was near bitten off. It was like he was nicked by a bloody bear."

That sounded terrifyingly familiar to which Weiss convinced herself that it was not what she thought it was. There were no such things on Earth. Right?

"He was out checking his traps then either walked in on a bastard too big for him, I guess."

"I'd wager it was a bear, not a wolf pack."

"If you ask me...if it was a bear, it'd have to be bigger than that statue over there. If it were wolves, either there'd have had to be a lot of them that could tear a man apart the way they did or they would have to be _that_ big to take your head in a single swipe."

The former heiress edged away from the window sill. Coincidental. It has to be. A hapless trapper was mauled to death by the wildlife. That was what it had to be. Wildlife that tended to be larger than usual on some occasions. Because if not...she stopped herself from shuddering at the passing thought.

"Isha, what is the matter?" asked Maria.

Weiss shook her head and forced a smile. "Nothing. Just felt a little draft on my back."

* * *

 _September 2, 1918_

* * *

Jaune carefully slid Weiss's latest letter into the neat stack compiled inside a large envelope that he kept in his satchel. It was nice to go back and read through the growing collection of their correspondence every now and then. Any source of hope and comfort would go far to fuel his drive now.

This exchange between them had been healthy for their friendship. It made it easier to be more vocal during idle chatter between their patrols. He was not warming up—he was rather only passive regarding most topics. It just so happened that the objects of today's gossip were worth commenting on. Like the disputes within the White Russian government between the monarchists and leftist reformists as well as the leadership clashes among the Allied high command.

Nearly a month in and it was clear how fractured their 'combined forces' were. The Whites were desperate for a victory that they absorbed former Red Army soldiers into their ranks, often tolerating their obvious resentment at having to protect the Romanovs. The only glue keeping them together was their common enemy: the Bolsheviks. The various factions—left, right, and center—would have to bear each other's company.

As a consequence of these struggles, their push into Karelia stalled dangerously and they had to fortify themselves against constant probing attacks by the Red Army. At least he did not have to deal with the White Russians and their constant obnoxiously noisy arguments. On the side of noisy...

Jaune emerged out of their dug-out to a commotion behind the earthworks. The British forward scouts had come back pale and panting. Curiously, he squeezed through the crowd of curious soldiers to listen in on the argument between them.

"Sir, I swear to you that was too big a bear!" cried the first man.

"Bollocks, it was bloody massive!" wheezed the second.

The British lieutenant barked, "Calm down, boys. What do you mean the bear was too big?"

"Biggest one I've ever seen in my whole life to be honest."

"The bugger chased us. Bloody chased us all the way up the stream, sir."

"If it's only wildlife then shoot it," the officer retorted. "Get yourselves sorted. Anything other than oversized animals? What about the bloody Reds?"

"They've been staying in place so far..."

The blonde corporal tuned out the rest of their report. Something about that bear they mentioned triggered a few alarm bells. They did not describe much but he doubted it was what he thought it was. Rationally, they could have either been exhausted from meandering through the uneven woods or the cold was getting to their heads. It would have been easy to mistake obvious details about an animal like its size, for one.

" _H_ _é_ , _ils disaient quoi_?" Baz asked for the rest of his squadron catching up. " _Des bolch_ _é_ _viques_?"

" _Non_. _Juste un ours_ ," Jaune dismissed.

Gosse hummed and mentioned something about the local wildlife being more aggressive recently. Avi interjected by including a confirmed report about a mauled trapper found not far from Archangel. Something about the bite marks on him that were too off for some of the experienced game hunters in the area.

Corporal Arkos shrugged. Despite his nonchalance, he tried not to worry himself. It was only a bear or a wolf or two that happened to be coincidentally similar to certain beasts he had once been trained to destroy. He would only be well and truly alarmed if he would wake up to a Nevermore flying over their heads.

If ever that day would come... Dear sweet divines above, this world would be in for it and neither he nor Weiss could do much to stop it if they came in droves.

Come to think of it...

It was getting dark and he went to see the quartermaster for an extra oil lamp.

* * *

"A little late to be drafting a letter, Jaune," remarked Causson as he hung up the lantern on a hook nailed to the wooden beam propping up the roof of their dug-out.

Jaune smiled a bit. At least his superior was professional enough to willfully ignore the letter being written on the crate. He trusted him that much—a far cry from his aloofness towards everyone. "We're not doing anything and I had a few things I needed to jot down. I may need to borrow your pen for a bit more, sir."

"I would not be needing it as much during these times. You certainly have been more _ouvert_."

He could admit that. "I talk when I feel like it."

"I will leave this here. You need the extra light." And the French captain departed to inspect the others.

Jaune unlatched the lantern and the hung it closer over his head. It was easier to see what he was putting down now that he had something to augment the flickering oil lamp next to his thigh. This was going to hurt his eyes more but he could not put this off until morning.

 _… Two scouts came back worried over oversized wildlife. They said it was a big bear. It was too big to be normal and it was so aggressive that it ignored its prey and chased after them. I know it sounds like something you and I both know but I don't want to jump to conclusions._

 _I also heard about something similar over there. Let me know what the details are and maybe we can pass this off as some stupid coincidence. I hope it is. I don't have Crocea Mors and you don't have Myrtenaster. There is only so much we can do if it comes to that._

 _Also, we might be pulling back to Archangel soon. Something about another reassignment. Hopefully we can talk about this in person._

The blonde corporal sat back and bit his lip, his foot tapping nervously against the soil. The pen danced in his grip and he glanced outside at the French troops milling about. Baz and Gosse were having milk and sugar nearby while Avi sat next to the Lewis gun mounted behind a mound of foliage and sandbags. So far, they had been lucky. Nothing beyond minor clashes with Red Army scouts.

He bent down to write. Slowly.

 _I don't want to jinx us but I got a bad feeling about all this. Take care, Weiss. I hope to see you soon._

 _Jaune._

* * *

 _September 3, 1918_

* * *

Weiss had just finished reading Jaune's letter when she heard the noise resonating from the street below. She pressed herself against the window beside Anya. They were both as dumbstruck as the public who had gathered to witness the British cart a massive dark grey wolf carcass through the streets to the only operating butcher shop in the city. It was larger than most of the wildlife and, dared she say it, was almost the same size as a beo—

"No. No, it's only a coincidence," she muttered.

"What coincidence?" asked the grand duchess.

The former heiress gulped. "Nothing. Just that...is that the same wolf that...killed that hunter a few days ago?"

"It must be," Anya answered curiously, herself watching the spectacle with subdued interest. "They talk a lot about the animals recently. Bad season for the hunters."

Weiss pressed herself closer against the window, her eyes following the unintentional procession rolling past on the street below until they disappeared behind the street corner. That was a big wolf. Furry and caked in blood with its jagged teeth blared.

Later she learned that the sentries had killed it when it came too close, growling and almost near pouncing on the nearest soldier. Something about it being unusually aggressive. Already, the religious in town asserted that it was a bad omen or a sign from God about things to come. Whatever the case, as long as it neither had a bony carapace nor was made of the darkest shadows, it was nothing to worry about.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 24, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 27, 2018**

 **NOTE: Act two will be short. Hopefully.**


	17. ACT II - September 4, 1918

**NOTE: Act two, everyone.**

* * *

 _September 4, 1918_

* * *

The first sign of trouble was the commotion in the streets. From their window sill, Weiss and Anastasia observed the militarized police force march a line of detainees through the parting crowds. The second sign was that all the suspects were dressed similar to their captors in White Russian military uniforms complete with epaulettes and insignia ranks: officers.

"This looks like what happened in Petrograd," mouthed the uneasy grand duchess.

The former heiress recognized some of the apprehended men. "Aren't they...aren't they Mister Dverko's militiamen?"

" _Chto_?"

The two ladies pressed themselves against the glass. Indeed, the militia that had guided them through the wilderness, that had volunteered themselves to service for the provisional government, were being paraded towards the police station with their hands over their heads, their faces bearing bitter resentment at what appeared to be a betrayal.

"This isn't right," Weiss muttered. "Something's not right."

"I think," added Anya. "I think this has something to do with papa's...distress."

"You don't think...?"

The third sign of trouble was the forceful banging on their door. Anya snatched and concealed her letter opener inside her undergarments while Weiss cautiously turned the knob. She pulled halfway before the door was forced open and the same imposing military police surged into their room at bayonet-point.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Weiss hollered, hesitating to activate her glyphs even as she and Anya were forcibly dragged out into the hallway.

The sergeant announced their charges: conspiracy to topple the Supreme Administration of the Northern Region, conspiracy to destabilize the peace, and treason. The two ladies vehemently protested as the rest of the Romanovs were hauled out of their rooms, down the corridor and into the lobby, poor Alexei being shoved and forced to walk the whole way without support while two of the enforcers jeered at his expense.

The ground floor was fully occupied by a heavily armed contingent of White Army soldiers, some of whom did their best to appear intimidating despite their clear hesitance at having to arrest the former regent. Tsar Nicholas demanded once again for an explanation to which a senior lieutenant approached and summarized the grounds for arrest: attempting to restore the Russian imperial throne.

"What!?" Weiss shrieked. "That's ridiculous! The tsar abdicated! He has no interest!"

Of course, she was ignored. Mainly because she spoke in English which nearly all of the troops surrounding them either did not understand or misunderstood completely. What the hell happened to their bodyguards anyway? Was the Allied high command even aware of this? Where were the British? The French?

"I demand to speak with General Poole!" she hollered.

The noise in the lobby died instantly. The lieutenant cleared his throat and announced the basis of their authority—as citizens of Russia, they were subject to her laws by which neither the Allies nor any foreign power could intervene. It was a classic line and one that Weiss began to acidly contest. Despite her basic grasp of Russian, she managed to hold a long argument with the officer until he exasperatedly ordered the soldiers to take her away.

Large arms clasped under hers and Weiss was tempted to activate her Semblance. That was until she saw Anya and Alexei swarmed by the rest of the contingent, their bayonets short of cutting their skin. She knew she could escape. But the cost would be too great.

"No, no, _no_!" she screamed as she thrashed.

She wished this was all a dream. A nightmare of the past when they had once been shackled by the Bolsheviks awaiting execution. There were shouts and she was sure she heard the tsaritsa screaming but by then, Weiss was thrown into the back of a horse-drawn carriage, bound by rope and gagged to silence her protests while they rode through the streets.

Along the way, she could overhear the driver talking to his associate about something he saw in the woods that morning: another black wolf, bigger than the one the Allied patrols killed the day before. The other man scoffed and scolded him for drinking too much.

Weiss could only stew in her thoughts as the large building housing the administrative offices of the provisional government finally came into view.

* * *

Jaune lifted his lantern to see clearly Causson trudge through the mud towards his squadron.

" _Capitaine_?"

" _Soyez pr_ _ê_ _ts_ ," the officer ordered sternly. They were going back to Arkhangelsk. Immediately.

In fact, four British monitors were already steaming close to the shore and the engineers were setting up a gangway to the deck of the closest vessel. Sensing the urgency, Jaune and his squadron rapidly sorted through their equipment in the dim lamplight and fell in line towards their designated ship that would ferry them around the Onega Bay back to the port city.

" _Qu'est ce qui se passe encore_?" asked Gosse to which Avi shrugged while Baz cast an inquisitive glance at the blonde corporal.

By the time they were on board and casting off, Jaune approached their visibly upset superior. His hands were noticeably wrapped tight around the bannister.

"I know what you are going to ask," Causson began without acknowledging his presence. "I received a telegram from Hillard. Trouble in Archangel. People we know are in danger."

Jaune was stupefied. Alarm bells rang in his head with a rising anxiety pumping in his chest. Weiss in trouble? "What kind of trouble?"

"Politics. That is all I can tell you now. I do not want you sharing my distress. Take the time to rest for we will be busy once we dock." And with that, the officer disappeared into the bridge.

" _H_ _é_ , Jaune," Baz called. " _Il a dit quoi_?"

The blonde corporal turned around and saw that most of those on deck were curiously waiting for his response. Everyone wanted to know why they were recalled abruptly. Causson never told him to keep his mouth shut but there had to be a reason why he addressed him in English. If he did not want him to be upset—because physical stress and emotional distress affected performance in the field—then he would be doing his comrades a favor by sparing them the terrible news until later. Goodness knows they were exhausted from the constant Red Army probing attacks with many among them rattled by rumors of aggressive wildlife.

Jaune shrugged at his squad mate. " _Red_ _é_ _ploiement_."

Despite having his motion sickness distract him for the most of the trip, he could not put off the worries raging in the back of his mind. Trouble in Archangel. Because of politics. Then again, it could be anything. Illness? Weiss getting sick? There was news of a flu from Spain spreading throughout Europe. Catastrophe? Weiss getting hurt? He doubted the infrastructure was that war-ravaged to fail. Grimm? No. Not possible.

" _Tu sais_ ," Avi commented. " _J'ai un mauvais pressentiment_."

Jaune nodded. Yeah, Avi. He had a really bad feeling about all this too.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 28, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 7, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 30, 2018**

 **NOTE: I was doing some reading and realised that I was not as historically accurate as I thought I had been. Whoops. Well, I'll try to rectify this as I go along. There might be corrections here and there but don't expect any major rewriting, though.**


	18. September 5, 1918

_September 5, 1918_

* * *

" _Freylina_! _Freylina_! Can you hear me? _Freylina_!"

Weiss got up from her bed. The raspy voice continued to echo her 'title' from behind the walls of her cell. She pressed her ear against the concrete. "Semyon Klementovich? Semyon Klementovich, is that you?"

" _Da_ , _eto menya_!" Mister Dverko replied excitedly. "Are you alright? Have they hurt you?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She was not. She was uncomfortably cold, hungry, and distressed.

"They arrested you, _da_?"

"What do you think?" she seethed back. "On trumped up charges no less!"

"My apologies. They arrested me for being involved with the _ofitsery_."

Weiss readjusted herself on her bunk to hear properly. "What officers? What is going on?"

"You do not know?"

"What is going on, Semyon Klementovich?" she demanded. "They manhandled Alexei. His body can't cope!"

"I am sorry this has happened. I tried to tell them but they were too stubborn."

"Who are you talking about? Who are these officers?"

The silence lasted longer than she would have liked before he replied, " _Kapitan_ Chaplin wanted to restore the monarchy. He and many of the _ofitsery_ here wanted to overthrow Tchaikovsky and restore the tsar to power." More silence as Weiss digested the information. "I may be loyal to the tsar but I have come to accept the need for newer leadership. It is a new age and I am afraid the throne would no longer be needed."

"The tsar has no intention of returning to power," she echoed. "He does not want to be in power anymore. He made that clear! He already abdicated. He wants nothing more than to take care of his family!"

" _Da_. He has said that before. And I respect his decision."

"So why did they arrest you?"

"Association. I may have not have supported their plan but I am still guilty of having been involved with them in other, heh, 'counter-revolutionary activities.'" A bitter chuckle. "Just like the old days. I do nothing and yet I am accused of something I do not even know of."

Weiss slumped on her bunk. She was alone in her cell. The walls were made of old concrete. There were cracks here and there. She could concentrate enough force to blast through—no. Her glyphs were not that strong. And such a daring move would jeopardize everyone else. There were armed guards here who probably had orders to shoot on sight. Escape could not be as easy for her as it would be for everyone else. And poor Alexei, wherever they kept him and the rest of the Romanovs. If they so much as learned of her escape, what more harm can befall the imperial family for her sake?

"Have you heard from Doctor Botkin?"

"He has been detained as well. I do not know where."

"How long are they going to keep us here?"

"I do not know. Hopefully, the Allies would intervene. They cannot let this stand."

"Do they even know?"

"They should. Your bodyguards did not like being ordered to leave you be. And General Poole will be very unhappy that the Romanovs have been treated like this when the Americans have already agreed to provide sanctuary."

She felt her eyes bug out of her sockets. "They have?"

"Before I was arrested, I was able to confirm the report from the high command. The American president has agreed to offer shelter to the imperial family. And their retainers. Including you."

What good news at a time like this. The former heiress hissed at the ceiling. "This is not right. We can't just wait here."

"I was thinking the same. Can you use your powers?"

She could. But she also couldn't. "I was subdued. There was too much at stake. I'd be risking your lives. If I'd so much as try, they'd shoot you before I could save you." Besides, she could only do so much in the face of so many armed men. "My glyphs can't break concrete and I don't think they can bend metal either."

"That is unfortunate." Uneasy quiet. "We will have to wait then. If you must know, the Americans have already arrived. From what I know, it will take them some time to adjust and form rank before they can act."

"How long?"

"I do not know. I am hoping very soon. Until then, I hope and pray that your French lover will come and rescue us."

"We're not _that_!" Weiss snapped to which she heard Mister Dverko laughing hoarsely from his cell.

* * *

The monitors docked at a crowded and heavily guarded port. Among the mixed bag of Allied troops was Hillard standing on the pier waiting to greet them along with hundreds of American reinforcements fresh from their ships still moored to the pier. Jaune heard Causson demand for an explanation as they disembarked.

"Some sort of plot about restoring the monarchy with the Romanovs. As vague and farfetched it may be, Tchaikovsky has used it as cause to cull half his own officer corps. He has issued a wave of arrests against suspected collaborators and, unsurprisingly, already incarcerated the imperial family," the British officer began. "Unfortunate now that President Wilson has sent his assurances that they be given asylum."

"Excuse me, what?" Jaune interjected.

"I didn't think you would actually be paying attention," Hillard remarked. "Then again, the news would break out eventually. Yes, Jaune. Our White 'friends' have imprisoned the imperial family and their retinue."

"Including—"

A long, loud and annoyed sigh. "Yes. Including her."

Corporal Arkos tightened his fists. There was politics in this, he knew that much. And if they arrested Weiss on some political thing, then they would have to explain every detail at the end of his rifle.

"Jaune," intoned Causson. "Let us handle this."

He wanted to scoff. "They had bodyguards. What happened to them!?"

"They were ordered to withdraw to avoid a confrontation," replied the British captain. "It would do no good to undo our own foothold while we still have the momentum. Any untoward incident would sever our only direct connection to the main body of the Provisional All-Russian Government."

More politics. Jaune grit his teeth. "Do you have a plan?"

"As a matter of fact, we do," answered Hillard with a confident smile that seemed to contrast the uneasy tension hanging in the air. "These Yanks could not have come at a better time. We retake the city. House by house, street by street. It might get bloody but I doubt there would be any such resistance."

"What makes you so sure of that, _sir_?" the blonde corporal snarled.

The British officer leaned in close, his near-omnipotent grin stretching maliciously from ear to ear, as he spoke in a voice that chilled his wrath all the way to the bone. "Trust me, young man. I _know_."

* * *

There was a bitter taste to the cabbage soup she was served.

Weiss felt the unease in her stomach and wondered whether or not the food was spoiled. Penal meals were notorious for being nutritionally deficient and in many cases directly harmful. As she laid in her bunk, she tried conjuring a glyph.

It startlingly hurt activating the small one. Weiss tried again and was once more hit with a pang of pain in her abdomen. This did not make any sense. She was healthy and recovering splendidly a day before. She had even been practicing her Semblance in careful privacy since waking up in Kholmogory. What happened overnight that she was having all this difficulty?

Was it...?

It was the food.

They knew. They had to have known for a while now. Despite the primitive communication, word still traveled fast and Tchaikovsky could have known about her hand in their 'miraculous' escape from Yekaterinburg. Guarded as her answers had been and despite the secrecy the Romanovs themselves tried to the maintain on her behalf, somehow they learned.

Probably an eavesdropping servant or an unassuming agent strolling past. They could have also had gone through her letters with Jaune. The damning secrets they both shared! That would have made him a target as well. They saw her as the queen of the chessboard that needed to be knocked off. Even on Earth as it was on Remnant, the many easy and subtle ways to disable a capable Huntsman were not all that different.

Weiss tapped her knuckles against the wall. "Semyon Klementovich! Semyon Klementovich!"

" _Freylina_? What is it?"

"I think...I think I've been poisoned."

* * *

When Hillard had asked for trust, Jaune was near-unwilling to give any. The blonde corporal expected an urban battle that would reduce Arkhangelsk to rubble. Only when they rapidly reclaimed half the city did he see how meticulous Hillard's strategy was that made their advance numbingly easy. Cohesion among Tchaikovsky's enforcers fragmented with cells of military police either laying down their arms or switching sides.

It had also not had been as bloody as he had anticipated. There were minor skirmishes, quick exchanges of gunfire, with an amazingly low casualty count. No had died. Yet.

" _Tu t'es fait tiré dessus_ ," Baz commented during a break inside a requisitioned restaurant.

Jaune looked down. Sure enough, there was a hole ripped into the side of his coat that went through the fabric of his uniform, stopping short of his bare skin where he managed to fish out the crumpled lead bullet stuck under his belt. Thank Aura for that. " _J'avais pas remarqué_. _Merci_."

The lanky grenadier huffed amusedly. " _Invuln_ _é_ _rable ou chanceux_?"

" _Chanceux_ ," the blonde corporal retorted with a scowl. Baz, Avi, and Gosse already knew about his Aura. Enough with the 'bullet-proof' jokes already.

" _H_ _é_ ," clapped Avi. " _Elle va bien._ "

Jaune raised a brow.

Gosse repeated, "Weiss _va bien_. _Nous allons nous en assurer_."

Corporal Arkos felt his face harden into a glare that he directed to the red flag being flown atop the large concrete structure that was the city's administrative offices situated only a few blocks away. If they so much as hurt her...

Baz shook him loose. "Jaune. Weiss _ira bien_. _On te le promet_."

Jaune eyed them. They made him a promise to help save Weiss. It could have been another hollow and deluded promise, the likes made by his long-dead comrades on the Western Front who had 'promised' to never leave his side, never to desert, never to die, but this one felt different.

" _Vous le jurez_?" the blonde corporal asked wearily.

Baz, Avi, and Gosse embraced him. " _Bien s_ _û_ _r_!" they chorused.

Of course, they would. He could trust his squad. They gave him his word. And unlike before, he did not doubt them. " _Merci_... _Merci beaucoup_ , _les gars_."

* * *

They had the compound surrounded by nightfall. Jaune helped Avi assembled his Lewis gun behind a barricade in a building across the street, the barrel aimed at the main entrance. Baz and Gosse took up positions on the windows beside them. Upstairs was another French colonial squadron. The other buildings were occupied by a mix of British and American troops.

Jaune leaned in beside the machine-gunner. " _Comment vons les n_ _é_ _gociations_?"

Avi answered honestly: all he knew was that General Poole was becoming frustrated and Tchaikovsky was being stubborn. He then nudged the blonde corporal when he could not stop listlessly tapping against the window sill. " _Reste_ _calme_ , Jaune."

Corporal Arkos sighed. " _Je suis calme_ , _je suis calme_."

Jaune scanned the empty windows of the administrative offices. She was in there with the imperial family and countless other accused plotters, probably chained to a wall or something. He doubted Weiss would ever agree to something as politically extreme as deposing the government; she assured him that the tsar had repeatedly reiterated his desire to stay away from the throne for good. Whatever the case, they were going to get her out even if it cost him a limb.

The blonde corporal wiped his face and cleared his head. Yeah. He meant it. She was the most precious thing he had in this world and he admitted that he would be willing to charge headlong into No Man's Land if it meant getting her out in one piece.

Avi spoke up after a while. " _Tu sais_ , _elle partirait pour l'Amérique_."

Yeah. When they would get her out of this, she would be following the Romanovs to the United States as a part of their retinue. That was out of his hands. " _Je sais_."

" _Tu penses que_ _ç_ _a ira_?"

Was he okay with it? Jaune refused to acknowledge that he was not but replied that he would cross that bridge when he got there. Having placated enough curiosity, he back to scanning the building they were now technically besieging. "Hang in there, Weiss."

* * *

It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

Weiss concentrated as best she could to boost her Aura to counter the poison. She tried to stay calm, sweating profusely on her bed and relying on Mister Dverko's words of encouragement resonating through the walls. But she could not deny how absolutely terrified she was.

The former heiress had always pushed the thought of dying to near irrelevance in the back of her mind. She was a survivor, a trained fighter, and a guardian with an obligation to preserve the lives of those around her. Now here she lay in a basement jail cell, battling with all her might against an enemy she could not fight.

Weiss was sniffling before she felt her tears streak down her damp cheeks. "Semyon Klementovich?"

" _Da_ , _freylina_?"

"I'm...I'm scared..."

"It is normal to be afraid. Know that you are a strong woman. Resist as best you can."

The white-haired girl was crying from both the pain in her body and the thought of actually dying. She was scared of death. She was terrified of it. She did not want to die. "I...I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"

"Stay with me, _freylina_! You are special. This venom cannot harm you that greatly."

"Stop lying! I know this will kill me... They'll kill me... Then they'll kill you and Anya and Lyoshka...and, and..."

"Weiss! Listen to me. You are stronger than this. I believe that you have always been. The actions of these men above us cannot break you. They cannot kill you."

Weiss slammed her fist weakly against the concrete. "How!? How can they _not_ kill me? I'm just as human as you..."

"You are a blessed creature. Stay strong as I am doing for you. You have...you have friends waiting for you."

"Ugh, what are you going on about now?"

A pause. "... _Kapral_ Arkos is waiting on you. You and I both heard the Allied soldiers gathering outside. I am sure he is among them, fighting for you. Waiting for you. How painful will it be if he enters and sees you have surrendered to the pain?"

"S-stop...I can't...just stop..."

"Hold on for him. Hold on for the grand duchess. For the imperial family. For our sakes. I know that our foolishness has led to this and I do not expect forgiveness. However, know that I still believe that you can survive this," Mister Dverko declared. "For his sake, for the sake of the imperial family."

Weiss felt her eyes droop. "I...I feel sleepy..."

" _Freylina._ Can you hear me?"

"I need to...sleep..."

" _Freylina_ , tell me that you are still there!"

"Semyon...Klementovich... _Spasiba bolshoye_..." She steadied her breathing, enduring the pain in her abdomen, and smiling slightly at the ceiling. "I feel...better..."

 _"Horosho_ , _horosho._ Stay strong, _freylina_."

"You too...Semyon Klementovich..." For now, she was shutting down; it felt late and her body needed to rest. She was _not_ going to die! Weiss held onto her stomach as the man's voice resonated soothingly through the wall. Slowly, she drifted to sleep to Mister Dverko singing the ballad of the Volga Boatmen, one of the few Russian songs she had learned at Tsarskoye Selo.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 30, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 10, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 4, 2018**


	19. September 6, 1918

**NOTE: I would like to extend my thanks to _Tefa_ for ironing out my French.**

* * *

 _September 6, 1918_

* * *

Jaune tightened his battered helmet over his head and looked over at the men waiting behind him. Two teams of British marines and American infantrymen stood behind him ready to follow his lead. On his flanks stood his own squad, bearing the most confidence in him. And that was quite terrifying. He was a corporal by rank yet somehow carried the weight of a lieutenant so much so that even the commissioned lieutenants were waiting on him.

Corporal Ionas Arkos looked across the street to the two machine-gun emplacements entrenched behind the cemented walls of the administrative offices. A few rifles could be seen sticking out of some of the windows on the upper floors. Inside was Tchaikovsky and his cabinet, Tsar Nicholas and his family, many monarchist prisoners, and most importantly Weiss.

"Everybody ready?" he called out behind him, catching many of the English-speakers by surprise. " _Ê_ _tes-vous pr_ _ê_ _t_?"

"We're with you, sir," answered a fusilier.

"Got your back, buddy," reciprocated another.

Baz gave him a thumbs up. " _Sur toi_ , Jaune."

Jaune breathed deep. "Remember! Don't stop moving in the open! Move from cover to cover! Two machine guns on the second window from the right and third from the left. Shoot to suppress!" He repeated it in French, receiving grunts and nods from the rest of his teammates.

Hillard proposed it, Causson argued against it, General Poole approved of it. Assemble a mixed platoon from the three nations to spearhead a brazen breakthrough into the building under the cover of brief but accurate fire from the Allied soldiers in the adjacent buildings. French, British, and American squads maneuvering under a single command was a complicated endeavor and one that fell on Jaune's shoulders as much as it did Causson's lieutenants. On the side, he was starting to question Hillard's conduct and his unorthodox planning; there was something off about him and Jaune was convinced he knew more than he let on.

The blonde corporal looked across the street to the main entrance. The distance was wide enough to build their momentum. Casualties had been low to non-existent up to this point.

"Live up to your name, Forked Lightning," Hillard echoed from the rear.

The blonde corporal wanted to flip him off. "You better be behind us, sir!" he shouted back.

"Do what you do best and we will do the rest," was his pretentious response.

Corporal Arkos scowled, nodded at his squadron, and placed one foot in front of the other. Then dashed out into the street. And everyone else ran with him with their bayonets out as Tchaikovsky's enforcers opened fire. Only did Jaune belatedly realize the grim consequence of being the foremost man leading the advance: he was first target of the machine-gunners.

* * *

Weiss was sweaty, feverish, and enervated when she was hauled out of her cell. Blurry shadows, familiar voices, constant movement past her fellow prisoners who were also being shoved upstairs to the main floor.

" _Freylina_! _Freylina_ , _ty v poryadke_?"

"Isha! Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

"She's ill! Please, don't treat her like this!"

The Romanovs, she recognized, flanked by nervous armed men. Aleksei was struggling against the soldier gripping his arms. Turning her head groggily, she saw Doctor Botkin and Mister Trupp being shoved towards the other ragged captives.

"Hey! Let her go!"

"Alyosha, don't be foolish," Tsaritsa Alexandra nearly shrieked.

Then the unmistakeable rattle of machine guns. In front of her, a group of men in overcoats rushed past with rifles. Sporadic gunfire, staccatos of pops and bangs. She felt her feet being dragged across cold, moist grass until was brought before the commandant who had her thrown onto the ground and held down. Of course, she could offer no resistance—the poison was strong enough to enfeeble her Aura.

There were arguments thrown over her head until she heard the resonating click of a pistol being cocked against the back of her scalp.

" _Nyet_ , _pozhaluysto_!" screamed Maria.

It was Yekaterinburg all over again.

"Isha!"

That dark basement of the Ipatiev House.

" _Freylina_!"

Commander Yurovsky reading the charges for their execution.

" _Prosti_ , _pozhaluysto_ , _gospozha_ ," apologized the man who was going to shoot her.

No! Weiss mustered enough to resist the weight of the knee pressed against her back. Her fingers spread out and, enduring the nauseating pain of the venom she was fed, managed to squeeze out a glyph that was just enough to knock the pistol upwards, sending the bullet meant for her head into the mortar.

" _Blin_! _Chto_!?"

" _Ona vedma_!"

Of course, the socialists would call her a witch right away. Weiss managed a small smile at this minute triumph as she expected a retaliatory kick to her side or face. It never came.

She heard someone roar at the top of his lungs along with many of the other male prisoners. A scuffle erupted above her as she tried to turn to her side, spitting out dirt and grass. She was suddenly hoisted up by Mister Dverko. Around her raged a melee between the monarchists and the socialists with the imperial family disappearing in the dust kicked up by the scuffle. " _Freylina_ , _vy v poryadke_?"

" _Nyet_... I can't move..." Weiss tried to look over his shoulder for any sign of the Romanovs.

"We need to get you out of here."

"Anya, Lyoshka...they..."

"The others are taking them to safety!" Captain Chaplin yelled through the mess, beating back bodies with a requisitioned rifle. "Be careful when you get out! The Allies are assaulting the compound!"

"Where?" she asked as she allowed herself to be lifted by her arms and pulled back inside into the corridor. The rattle of gunfire echoed through the walls. A bullet whipped over their heads, shattering a fragile chunk of the ceiling and raining plaster over them. The debris conjured a thick cloud that made Weiss cough and lose her footing, dragging her escorts onto the floor.

Strangely, the machine-guns fell silent. And more voices echoed from the end of the hall. In accents that were neither British, French, nor Russian.

"I see someone!"

"Stop right there!"

Mister Dverko staggered to his feet and waved his hands. " _Nyet_! _Nye strelaytye_! Friendly, friendly! Prisoner!"

"Get out of the way then!" gestured the American infantryman.

"She is hurting! She needs help!" the farmer insisted, slipping his arm under her and lifting her up as a groom would his bride.

"Alright, alright, get over here!" another serviceman ordered. "Medic! I need a medic over here!"

Weiss could only see the ceiling moving above them. Mister Dverko's scraggly beard and his pained expression as he carried her to the Allies. "Semyon Klementovich..."

"We are almost there, _freylina_ ," he wheezed. "Stay strong. Stay stro— _gah_!"

The former heiress jolted in surprise when he spasmed, his eyes going wide and his jaw dropping. Then she saw the blood trickling through a freshly punctured hole above his chest, a mere inch above her thigh. "Semyon!"

He staggered and tumbled, dropping her right in front of the American soldiers who dragged them both behind the corner while firing back at the socialists.

"Medic! We got wounded!"

The poison was reaching its zenith, denying Weiss much of her senses. Her fingers were numb and her abdomen was throbbing with immense pain. The intricate patterns chipped into the ceiling were obscured by a blurry shadow—Mister Dverko?—that snaked around her arms with sticky crimson palms and pulled her further back until her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

* * *

"Jaune!"

"Man down! Man down! You alright there, sir?"

"Get off me," Corporal Arkos breathed, muscling out of the Briton's hold. "I'm...not dead...yet."

"You got holes in you!"

"Let me be! Just...keep going," he growled, picking himself up with his rifle and prodding onward, past the neutralized machine-gun nests. The rest of the platoon was unharmed; the gunners ignored them, zeroing in on him all the way. His adrenaline-fueled brain concluded that someone in there had given the order for the defenders to target him out of the many Allied soldiers that crossed the street en masse.

That meant that someone knew who he was. Someone knew what he was capable of or seriously believed the rumors of his "invincibility." That was moot now as he pushed himself through the double doors, ignoring his squad pleading for him to stop and sit down behind cover.

" _Je vais bien_!" he snapped when Gosse tried to pull him behind a pillar.

He screamed back that he was bleeding to which Jaune scoffed. Bleeding was an understatement; he had absorbed over a dozen cartridges, abusing his Aura to the best of his ability. It hurt like hell but he was not giving up this time. He had screwed up before with someone else who had been dear to him; he was not going to screw up again!

"Weiss!" he called out. "Weiss! I'm coming! I'm...coming!"

Gunfire echoing through the walls. The American forward unit falling back from the end of the hallway. The British pushing up to reinforce their advance.

Jaune jogged sluggishly with his rifle hanging loosely in his grip, his boots leaving prints of his own blood on the marble floors. He licked his lips and spat out the salt and copper taste. "Weiss! Weiss!"

" _Merde_ , Jaune! _Attendez_!"

" _Bon sang_! _Attends-nous_!"

" _Tu_ _saignes_!"

There was no time to wait. She was in here, trapped between two sides trying to blow each other to bits. She needed the help, all he had to look out for the was the glyphs. He turned the corner hoping to find the former heiress holding her ground with someone's rapier while barking orders.

Instead, what he walked into was the American squadron taking cover behind overturned furniture while a bearded man with three holes in his chest tried to drag her limp body away.

Limp. Body.

Jaune felt something crack.

" _Weiss_!" he screamed, raising his rifle and furiously cycling his shots at the figures at the other end of the corridor, hitting no one but suppressing them enough for his squadron and several others to catch up.

"Advance!" a sergeant yelled and the rest of the platoon cautiously closed the gap towards the dozen or so socialists who had fallen back deeper into the building.

As they filed past him, Jaune snapped his head to his right, catching the trail of blood—not his own—smeared across the marble, leading back to the reception hall where Causson and Gosse hovered over the unresponsive Weiss while Baz and Avi tended to the severely wounded man who he had recognized by now as a guy named Dverko.

"Weiss!" The corporal slid towards her, cupping her hand with his own.

"Jaune! You're wounded!" exclaimed his superior.

He ignored him. "Weiss, hey, you alright? Can you hear me?"

"She...has been poisoned," squeezed Dverko, shrugging off the attending medic and leaning beside him. "Her body...is fighting it."

"Jaune, you are in no condition to fight," declared Causson. "Let us handle this."

"No!"

"Fall back, _Caporal_ Arkos."

"Shut up!"

"That is an order, _caporal_!"

"Then sue me!" he spat back, running his palm over Weiss's abdomen while he wiped the sweat off her forehead. "Hey, hey, Weiss. It's me, Jaune. I'm here."

Behind him, he heard Avi say something about having to bring her back to the rear for proper treatment. There would be no time for that! Precious minutes would be wasted waiting for a stretcher then running through the winding streets to the facilities they had three, five, ten blocks away.

No. To hell with that. Weiss was all he had left in this world. Whatever emotional cauldron was boiling in his gut sent shockwaves to his brain, triggering an automatic impulse: he rested his hands over her stomach.

" _Caporal_ Arkos!"

"Jaune, _appelons un m_ _é_ _decin_."

Dverko raised his voice. "No! Let him!"

"What!? Why!?" protested the French captain.

"Look!"

Jaune would have to thank the Russian for that later. Right now, he needed to concentrate. He didn't know what he was doing but something in his mind knew that this would work. He could feel the surge of his Aura flow through his palms and...into her, creating a shimmering display of radiant energy encapsulating her whole body. Causson and Gosse staggered back in surprise with Baz and Avi surely doing the same.

By then, the blonde corporal began to feel the drain of his reserves. His eyes fell shut and he began to wobble. He needed to remain focused. Aura could do so much in the face of toxins. But he had more than enough to share and Weiss, despite her skill, was fragile in many places. So he kept pushing. Until he felt lightheaded and the world started to spin.

"I got you!" Dverko grunted, snatching his forearms and forcefully propping him up with a knee pressed against his spine. "Keep doing what you are doing!"

Jaune nodded and continued channeling his reserves into her and in return feeling more and more of the pain of his own wounds. In his peripheries, Gosse inched closer until he reached over and helped to steady him. The blonde corporal felt more hands gently support him, keeping him upright and rigid like a statue.

"It is working," huffed the Russian. "She is...getting better..."

Corporal Arkos looked down at Weiss's face to see the dark rings around her eyes disappear and her snowy complexion magnificently restored. Finally, she awoke to his gaze.

"... Jaune?" she breathed.

"Hey, Snow Angel," he greeted back followed by Dverko's grip slipping and the man dropping with a solid thud. Not a moment later, Jaune retracted his hands and succumbed to the darkness as he too collapsed into the arms of his squad mates.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: August 30, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 8, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 8, 2018**


	20. September 9, 1918

_September 9, 1918_

* * *

Weiss would grudgingly admit that she had been a pompous, pampered heiress for most of her life living in a luxurious mansion fitted with state of the art technology and a host of devoted servants at her personal beck and call. Beacon changed all that. Saint Petersburg broke everything down. Yekaterinburg shook her awake. And Arkhangelsk thrust upon her a new line of work she never thought she would actually consider herself doing.

"Hey, lady! A little help over here!"

"Coming!" Weiss replied, rolling up her sleeves and smoothing out her apron then dashed across the ward to assist the orderlies in hauling in another casualty of war.

"That bed over there!" the young man ordered.

"Got it."

If there was anything the white-haired girl was proficient at other than being a Huntress, it was basic first aid and home care. Klein's insistent lessons were paying off immensely. How ironic that she was the servant now.

Shortly after tucking in the latest victim of a Red Army ambush, volunteer orderly Weiss Schnee went outside to collect a basin of water and a towel to clean up the dried blood and grime still sticking to the patient's skin. As she turned, her gaze settled at the adjacent ward where on the bed in the far corner lay Forked Lightning comatose and wrapped in sheets of gauze.

Aura exhaustion could prove fatal, her brain reminded her. Crimson blotches seeped through his bandages; he needed changing. She was about to walk in when she heard the orderly bark at her from the other room.

"Excuse me, miss! Over here. Patient's in here."

"Sorry." Weiss mentally berated herself, holding a final glance at Jaune's still form, before walking briskly back.

The orderly appeared sympathetic. "Look, your fiancé's fine."

"He's not—"

"You don't have to argue. He saved your life—I don't know how. Maybe he really is a miracle-worker. Experiences like those tend to start something, right?"

The former heiress scowled at him. "He's my _friend_. I _care_ for him."

He raised up his hands. "Fine, fine. Just, please, help me out with this guy over here, okay? No getting distracted, alright? Hell, it was the same when I volunteered for this but could you at least keep your head in order?"

Weiss grit her teeth at the rebuke. Her co-worker was right. She signed up for this. Breathing deep, she focused the best she could on her duties at Arkhangelsk's only operating hospital.

* * *

"Isha."

She jolted awake to Anastasia retracting her hand from her shoulder. "Anya? What are you doing here?"

"Helping out," the grand duchess answered, donning her own apron. "How long were you asleep?"

"I...don't know. What time is it?"

"You need to rest. You have worked enough hours."

"No, I—"

"Isha. We can take care of Jaune, too," Anya said. "We helped to care for our own wounded soldiers before. We know what we are doing."

Weiss opened her mouth to protest only to be shushed by an arriving Olga. "That would be enough work for you, Isha," the older Romanov mockingly scolded. "Unless you want to be a patient yourself. Treating your fatigue is not easy."

The former heiress frowned. "At least tell me what time is it?"

"Just passed noon."

"You should rest," insisted Olga. "The others told me you worked through the night. Don't tell me your own Aura can preserve you for that long."

It would not, she did not admit. "I've worked this much before."

"And you need to sleep. Have you even eaten?"

"Early lunch. Bread and cabbage soup."

"Isha," Anya interjected rather forcefully. "Sit down and rest."

The white-haired girl opened her mouth to argue only to receive a rather heavy glare from the youngest grand duchess. Sighing, she sunk into her chair in the staff break room. "Fine. A short nap. Just...wake me up when you need my help."

"Or when Jaune wakes up," snickered Olga.

"Oh, shush it."

* * *

Weiss awoke from her drowse as visiting hours nearly concluded. She emerged into the hallway, directly into Captain Causson whose larger frame knocked her unceremoniously onto the floor.

"I am so sorry, _mademoiselle_!" he apologized, helping her up. "I did not see you."

"No, no, it's fine."

"If you do not mind me asking, how are you feeling?"

Healthier than the week prior. "Better now, thank you."

"Ah, that is good. Good." He smiled. "Do not mind me. I was seeing my way out."

Weiss nodded and took one step before a thought crossed her mind. Given her light workload and the many hours she could burn off, it might prove useful later on. With a swift turn on her heel, she called back at the officer. "Captain, may I ask for a favor?"

Causson shook his head. "I am a busy man, _mademoiselle_."

"You don't have to grant it. If not you, I could ask some of the men under your command."

The captain raised his brow. "If that were the case, what is this favor?"

The former heiress was fully expecting refusal so she was thoroughly surprised when, after carefully wording her request, Causson actually agreed. Better to have a hobby to distract her worried mind in her downtime.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, Weiss found all four Romanov sisters standing around a gurney in the morgue with the mortician. The snippets of a lesson on cleaning the dead reached her ears when she approached.

"Ah, _zdrastvuytye Gospozha_ Schnee," acknowledged the elderly man as he wrung a moist cloth over the basin beside him.

She returned with a nod at both him and the grand duchesses. Then she looked at the body and felt the taste of lead in her throat. "Any word...from next of kin?"

The mortician shook his head. He apologized, excused himself, and left to advise the staff to reserve another plot in the cemetery, leaving them with the thoroughly cleaned corpse illuminated by the bulbs hanging over their heads. Weiss hovered over the gurney, silently reading the solemn expressions on the Romanovs' faces.

"He doesn't have any family," she announced morosely.

"The burial is tomorrow. We will all be there to attend," Tatania solemnly said.

Weiss nodded slowly. There were five other cadavers in the room, already cleaned and prepared for interment alongside this one, casualties of this stupid conspiracy borne out of the foolish ambitions bred by this damn civil war.

"He would have wanted us to be happy," remarked Maria.

"And alive and safe," added Olga.

The white-haired girl had nothing else to say to that. She was right. Looking down at the late Semyon Klementovich Dverko and seeing the contentment forever embalmed on his face, she could find no words to express her emotions. Or her gratitude.

He was a peasant farmer. He could have easily joined the Bolsheviks but instead gave up his land and his life to preserve theirs. Doctor Botkin had come by earlier in the day to pay his respects, Olga said. The tsar, tsaritsa, and tsesareivch followed suit shortly thereafter, the three of them offering final prayers for his soul. Eventually, the Romanov sisters bade her farewell and returned to their duties elsewhere.

"Isha, if you need anyone to talk to, we are always here," Anya offered.

"Yes. I know. Thank you," Weiss answered without taking her eyes off the dead man. "Thank you," she whispered, her throat dry and her cheeks damp. " _Spasiba bolshoye_ , Semyon Klementovich."

Shortly before she retired from her shift, one of the attending surgeons complimented her rendition of the Song of the Volga Boatmen.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 8, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 9, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 9, 2018**


	21. September 12, 1918

_September 12, 1918_

* * *

Weiss returned to the inn to find Hillard and Anastasia waiting for her in the lobby. The latter called her over as the former stood to formally greet her.

"Miss Schnee, I believe this here belongs to you," the British officer said, handing over a small wooden chest.

"What's this?"

"These are the letters between you and Jaune," Anya explained. "The Allies confiscated them from the socialists."

Despite having had a long day at the hospital, Weiss still had enough energy to be visibly shocked. "D-did you read through it?"

"Other than myself and your captors, no one else," Hillard replied.

"How much do you know?" Weiss near whispered.

"Enough to keep my lips sealed."

"What about...Tchaikovsky and his men? They must have gone through these when I was incarcerated! They would know! They would have known too much!"

"You need not worry about those old fools."

Somehow, the captain's assurances were far more ominous than she would have liked. So Weiss pressed, "Surely, you struck a deal with them to maintain their silence."

A dismissive smirk. "You could say that."

Anya grasped her hand. "Isha. I think it is best if you do not express any more curiosity."

The white-haired girl stared at the grand duchess. The latter at her sleeve, a subtle hint to drop it. With a resigned sigh, the former picked up the box and trudged up the stairs. "Thank you for bringing these back, captain."

"You are all the more welcome, Miss Schnee. I hope we can have a more illuminating conversation soon."

Weiss was not so sure of that.

* * *

"So you and Jaune fought these monsters of the night," Anya mused.

The former heiress groaned into her pillow. Of course, the grand duchess could not help herself; her notorious nosiness knew no bounds. Anastasia cheekily admitted to having read some of their exchange and was thus impeccably curious. "Grimm. They were called Grimm and they were soulless creatures attracted to forms of negativity."

"Negativity? So if I loathed someone greatly, does that attract these grim beasts?"

"Yes."

"What about if I had great love for someone? Does that repel them?"

Weiss craned her head towards her roommate lounging on her bed across from hers. "Not necessarily. It makes you less of a target."

"So these...grim creatures... They look like wolves and bears?"

The former heiress decided to monologue what she could remember from Grimm Studies back at Beacon, notably all the Grimm she could recall that ever existed. By the time she concluded, she was half-convinced that everything she said flew over Anya's head and she would probably ask for a repeat. Just like Ruby.

"So that's why you train to become Huntresses, right?"

Weiss scolded herself for not giving the grand duchess enough credit. She may be mischievous but she was not as insufferable as her old team leader. Wherever she was now. "To hold back the Grimm, yes. I've already lectured you on this before. At Perm. Remember?"

"Most of it. We did get chased by the Red Army shortly afterward."

"At least I won't have to repeat myself," she breathed.

"Ah, it seems that I did not catch some parts. What are Grimm again?"

Weiss nearly threw her pillow at her. "Go to sleep, Anya. We have an early shift tomorrow. Wounded coming up from Obozerskaya."

Humming. Then Anya shifted in her sheets until she let out a discomforting grunt and said, "Jaune had so many scars. Were some of them from...?"

"I don't think so." Honestly, that blonde dolt had so much Aura it would be a miracle to get so much as a scratch on him. Then again, she could have never really known. Perhaps the many healed gashes she had seen with her own eyes and felt with her own fingers when she helped the other orderlies redress him were from the Western Front.

It was not that she did not in some way appreciate Arc's body. She was more horrified by the damage done; the many areas where shrapnel had broken through his Aura, disfiguring what could have been an admirable physique. The agony Jaune must have felt when his Aura had absorbed too much... For some reason, it started to hurt her as well. Emotionally.

Uncomfortable silence.

Anya once again spoke in a more reserved tone. "I do not know if I should tell you this. But I think you should know that...Hillard convinced General Poole to execute the men who had read your letters. Only Tchaikovsky and his closest confidants were confined to Solovki."

The white-haired girl felt her eyelids flutter open. She crumpled deeper into her bed. "He didn't have to. He could have just paid them off."

"It has already been done, Isha. I'm sorry."

"There's something off about him," Weiss confessed. "I'm trusting that man less and less."

"Captain Hillard?"

"Who else?" She sat up to face her roommate. "His methods are questionable, his motives clash with his contemporaries'... He's an enigma. I think Captain Causson and even the Americans are wary of him."

Anya twiddled with the ends of her hair and bit her lip. Nervous tics. Weiss knew her enough to know that there was something the grand duchess knew that she did not. After a quiet moment, she let out a long-held breath. "I have only heard this from...when papa was talking to General Poole. I did not mean to overhear; I was only passing by and...I could not help it."

"What is it?" Weiss urged.

"Captain Hillard...has connections to British spies."

The former heiress knew she should have seen this coming. Nevertheless, her jaw hung agape. "He's a spy?"

"I do not know. I only heard that he has friends among the British and French spy groups."

"Probably part of a wide intelligence network," Weiss mumbled. "This is not good. He knows. He probably shared it with his contacts. I'm on a list. Jaune's on a list."

"Isha, what are you saying?"

She broke out of her reverie gripped with fear. "My secrets. They know my secrets." It was bad enough that the socialists were aware of what she and Jaune were truly capable of. How much more if the Allies possessed the same knowledge? Could they be really trusted? Granted, she and Jaune did not outwardly express in their writings the Grimm, leaving only subtle hints which they knew the other would grasp easily.

Anya crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed. "I do not think they will do anything about it. They returned it to you, after all."

"Yes, but after they read through it."

"After they _might_ have read through it. We do not know for sure."

"It's still a possibility. What about Captain Causson? Or the other men in Jaune's brigade? His own squadron?"

"Isha," the grand duchess interjected, "I only mentioned Captain Hillard. I understand why you are suspicious but you do not need to add any more names. I could be wrong."

"You could also be right."

"We will be going to America in time. We will be away from the fighting, from the people who would want to do us harm," Anastasia reasoned. "Who knows? Perhaps them knowing could serve us better? They could use it to protect us and, maybe, help others. Others like you."

Yeah, if ever Earth were to be invaded by Grimm or any more rogue Huntsmen or Huntresses. "Anya, I don't like it. I don't like that they know."

"We cannot be sure of that. We should not jump to conclusions."

"Says the eavesdropping regent of mischief."

A chuckle. "I know when to keep secrets. For now, as you said, we should rest."

Weiss laid back down while her roommate returned to her bed across from hers and put out the only remaining lamp in their quarters. "I need a weapon," she absently dictated to the darkness. "A sword or maybe even a dagger at least. Ugh, I'm being ridiculous again."

"I can hide two knives in my dress."

"I seriously doubt your ability to smuggle contraband."

"... I have not been caught yet."

"Goodnight, Anya," Weiss groaned much to the grand duchess's Ruby-like laughter.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 12, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 12, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 12, 2018**


	22. September 19, 1918

_September 19, 1918_

* * *

The first thing to register in Jaune's mind when he opened his eyes was that angels were not supposed to be scowling like that. Also, they did not slap him hard in the face then suddenly strangel him in a tight embrace. Then again, angels did not bawl their eyes out to the point that his tunic was damp with tears. Thus, he concluded that he was not dead because this did not seem like the afterlife many of his comrades were promised.

"Weiss?"

"You...you dolt!" she sniffled, finally unlatching herself.

Jaune tilted his head. "You're...a nurse?"

Weiss harrumphed while she wiped her face dry and returned to the wringing the damp towel over the water basin beside his bed. "Someone has to take care of you."

He leaned back on his pillow as she carefully dabbed his cheeks and forehead then softly wiping his face. "What...happened?"

"The Allies toppled Tchaikovsky, exiled him to an island off the coast, and are setting up a more amicable provisional authority that would be more in line with Admiral Kolchak's government."

"Huh. What about the guys? Captain Causson?"

"Your comrades are fine."

"So that leaves me with the worst of it then. Typical."

The white-haired girl stopped rigid. She took a moment to compose herself before answering him in her signature frown. "You stubborn fool. I told you to never throw your life away like that! How could you be so reckless!?"

Jaune tilted his head until he started to remember. "I...what did I...?"

"You were peppered by two machine guns, Jaune. What were you thinking?" she scolded. "Your Aura can only take so much."

"I...I heard that you were in trouble," he stammered, piecing together details of that day.

"Please, Jaune," she muttered softly. "Enough with playing heroics."

A bitter grunt. "I've gotten over that a long time ago."

"Is that so? Because clearly you haven't."

"What?"

"Don't let your emotions lead your decisions." Her fists were clenched and trembling. "I almost lost you."

"Weiss, what are you—"

"You're lucky you have Aura," she mumbled shakily.

He reached out to touch her hand. "Hey, I'm still here."

"You are...but someone else isn't."

Jaune narrowed his gaze. "What? Who?"

"Semyon Klementovich Dverko. They buried him last week. He was...a friend who helped us escape."

A fresh tear dropped onto his palm and he tipped Weiss's chin up to face him. "Weiss...I'm sorry."

"He helped us escape from the Bolsheviks, Jaune. He was loyal and...willing to give up so much for us. He had been so willing...to die for us. And, well, he has already done his part."

Jaune gripped her arms and held it up as he leaned forward on his bed. "I'm sorry, Weiss."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe it was..." As it had always been the case on the Western Front. People would always die because of him—because they followed him into the fires of oblivion knowing full well that none of them would walk back out of it alive.

"No, Jaune." She met his longing gaze, her own crystalline orbs reflecting the sun shining through the windows behind him. "He...he helped you save my life. I haven't known him well enough to say this but I still think he would not have wanted to go down any other way."

"I don't..."

"He was shot three times. I saw it happen. And he kept pushing forward under fire. He...they said that he kept you from losing consciousness so you could...save my life."

Jaune slumped back onto his pillow. That chaotic morning, absorbing the first hits of those two machine guns, enduring the pain of the fight, channeling his Aura...

"I guess I did." The Russian who steadied him, the same man who had been torn up by rifle fire but somehow managed to expend his remaining strength to make sure he had saved the life of another. He could never thank him now.

"What did you do, Jaune?" she asked. "They said that you were glowing. We were both glowing. Something about that."

"Glowing?" Could it be really? A greater manifestation of his Aura? Aura manipulation? Or perhaps it could very well be... No. It can't be. "What else did they say?"

"The usual thing they would publish on the tabloids. Invulnerable. Miracle-worker. Healer."

"Healer?"

The former heiress set down her towel and met his clouded stare directly. "Jaune. You used your Aura to do something. To me. To you. To us both."

He gulped. "I think...I think I unlocked my Semblance."

* * *

Jaune was in the hospital's exercise yard, carefully putting one painful foot in front of the other with Weiss's steady assistance and a temporary crutch.

"Jaune? Jaune!" chorused the familiar voices of his fire team.

He looked up and greeted them with a partial smile. He was still in pain and he was not in the mood to be mobbed by three men. " _Les gars_..."

"You are alive!" Bazouille exclaimed thickly.

Jaune blinked. "Since when did you start speaking English?"

"That's his first proper sentence," echoed Causson as he emerged from under the culvert. "You have inspired your comrades to learn a new tongue."

Baz shrugged cheekily. " _C'est tout ce que je sais_."

" _S'il vous pla_ _î_ _t ne le harcelez pas_ ," Weiss shot back dryly to which Jaune swirled his head to stare dumbly at her. She cocked an unimpressed brow as she stood akimbo. "What are you staring at? Keep walking!"

He felt his mouth dry up. Mainly because his jaw was hanging agape while his mind tried to convince him that he had indeed heard what he heard. After a while, he started reaching up to the scar on his forehead and ran his fingers all the way through his scalp, searching for any fresh stitches under his hair. "I didn't get hit too hard in the head, did I?"

Causson chuckled. "She is a fast learner. Diligent and insistent. She has had very willing tutors. Of course, I could only spare so much free time."

Jaune glared at his squad mates which made them raise their hands in seemingly mock innocence. Mock in that they sported cheshire grins.

"I asked around," Weiss sighed. "Taking care of you is not as burdensome as I would have anticipated. Besides, your companions here have nothing else to do other than prance about the streets hence they were the most readily available and easily communicable for this."

"Learning French?" He also wanted to inject that he was not that much trouble to take care of. He can wipe his own ass, thank you very much.

She scowled. "Why not? I can speak Russian too. Not fluently but good enough to hold an argument."

"Yeah, yeah but...when did you start with French?"

"Since...since you saved me. And I thought it would be convenient at least to not have to have you translate something to these three other dolts you have seeing as they almost never leave your side," she answered timidly.

Standing before him was a personality he rarely ever saw: head-bowed, apprehensive, twiddling her fingers behind her back. Jaune smirked. "They like you."

"Shut up, you insufferable dolt." And her old self was back.

Gosse draped his hand over him. " _Alors Sergent_!"

He tensed up, his head slowly pivoting to the rifleman. " _C_ - _comment_?"

"Eh? _Tu ne sais pas_?"

"Ah, _f_ _é_ _licitations_ , Jaune," congratulated Causson smugly. "Or should I say _Sergent_ Arkos?"

Jaune looked around. His superior, though proud for his sake, wore a mixed smile. On the other hand, Baz, Avi, and Gosse were eager to pop out the cork in the celebratory champagne bottles they might have hidden somewhere in the back. Weiss merely shrugged while keeping that slight knowing curl at the end of her lips.

" _Sergent_? I'm a sergeant now?"

Causson nodded. His squad nodded enthusiastically.

Sergeant Ionas Arkos felt faint. " _Why_!?"

* * *

"Good to see you recovering splendidly," greeted Hillard.

Jaune remained casually laying on his bed, returned with a cold nod as the setting sun filtered through the windows into his solitary ward. "Sir."

Weiss followed after him, closing the door, herself making no attempt to conceal her contempt of the British officer.

Hillard, for his part, was more beguiled than repelled by the atmosphere. With a chuckle, he pulled up a chair close to his bed. "How are you feeling, Jaune?"

"Better."

"Your reputation has grown considerably while you were recovering."

"I can't help it." Really, what was it this time? The blonde sergeant was not in the mood for this charades game, more so now that Weiss shared her lingering suspicion that the officer was a conduit for Allied intelligence. "What do you want, sir?"

Hillard chuckled. Smarmy bastard. "Astute young lad. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way."

"Thank you. I didn't want it."

"You would not have been allowed to decline it, anyway," the British captain answered evenly with that same unnerving smile that demanded for his full unrequited attention. "It's about bloody time you moved up the ranks. Wouldn't want anymore of the privates ripping at you to be their savior."

"Excuse me, what?"

"May I ask what this is about?" added Weiss who had by now crossed the room to stand behind the officer.

"Have a seat, Miss Schnee," Hillard ordered sternly.

She glanced at Jaune who gestured at her to comply. She occupied a stool on the other side of the bed, her scrutinizing gaze falling on the man across from her whose tactics she believed were too reckless and aggressive. It was no secret, after all, that the brazen assault was his brainchild and had even insisted that Jaune be at the forefront to lead it because of his supposed skill and uncanny luck at avoiding death.

"Alright. What do you want to say to us?" the blonde sergeant demanded.

The warmth Hillard radiated quickly dissipated. "Your Semblance. What is it?"

Jaune and Weiss both raised their brows at that. "My what?"

"Your Semblance, sergeant. Do you know what it is?"

Sergeant Arkos scrutinized the man. If Hillard was indeed a channel for British and French espionage agencies, then they would naturally be curious of his Semblance. He most likely fed them information about his Aura and they could have very well read through their letters. A part of him wanted to deflect. Then again, it was probably too late to deny anything now.

"Why should I tell you?" he mouthed, very tempted to call him out right then and there.

"Because, sergeant, if I do not know what I am working with, the locals would start to think you're some sort of God-man with healing powers. That false notion alone would undermine our operations here. I would have you know that we have only recently seized a vital railway that demanded extensive effort on our part. Effort which could easily be wasted by fractured morale and factionalism encouraged by this hearsay about some invincible hero who could close up not only his own wounds but those of others as well."

Jaune gulped. "... I thought you had all that under control."

"We are working on it. The high command is too busy consolidating our recent gains," Hillard retorted. "I need the truth if I am to fabricate more lies to placate the masses."

"What made you jump to his Semblance so quickly?" interrogated Weiss whose fingers laced with Jaune's.

"Educated guess. It was not that hard to piece together the details, you know." The British officer leaned back in thought. "Perhaps...your Semblance involves the extensive use of your Aura—"

"Aura manipulation," Jaune blankly rejoined. "That would explain my large Aura reserves. I could draw on them to...amplify those of others." He looked up at them both. "To rejuvenate depleted reserves, to enhance regeneration and...healing... I'm a power-up."

"You're saying...that you are a battery then," postulated Hillard.

"In a way, yeah. I think. I'm still trying to figure it out."

"A battery only useful to those who possess Aura." He huffed. "Lovely revelation. Your most useful asset is handicapped by the complete absence of those who would actually need it."

Weiss seethed. "Well, now that you have what you came for, are you satisfied enough to leave? Visiting hours are almost over. You would not want to be late to your other appointments now, wouldn't you, captain?"

"Miss Schnee, I hope you realize that you are the only person in the known world who could benefit directly from Sergeant Arkos's ability. How unfortunate that within a few weeks time you would be migrating to the United States for good."

The two teenagers from Remnant exchanged weary, conflicting glances.

Hillard continued. "Once you have been discharged, sergeant, you will be relegated back to the front with your squadron. That is beyond my control for now. Émile and I will do our very best to preserve your secret. The men have begun talking and we do not need a restless frontline at this time."

Jaune sat up on his bed. "Sir. Is there any set date for when my service ends?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Ask Émile though I doubt he would give you anything other than the standard response." Hillard tapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm sure you can survive this long enough to get a transfer. Just hope that your leave comes before the ports freeze."

"Any news from the front?"

"France?" The British officer pondered slightly. "We broke through the German lines at Amiens and the Somme. Spectacularly, according to the papers."

"How spectacular?" pressed Jaune.

"I cannot say for certain. However, if we deal more similar victories in the coming months, we might finally see an end to this war. And maybe...you can finally be discharged from active service."

"That would be great!" Weiss chirped.

Hillard smirked. "Where would you settle, Jaune?"

"I...don't know." The young sergeant had no home to speak of other than his own dug-outs. He would have to find work, find an apartment, and eke out a new life here on Earth because goodness knows he was damned here for all eternity. Weiss's touch banished those musings almost immediately.

"I'll talk to Nikolay Alexandrovich. I doubt he would refuse you. You can be his new footman or valet," she bargained.

"Assuming," interjected the British captain, "that you will finally be discharged at the conclusion of hostilities. Or you would have to incapacitate yourself seriously enough to be withdrawn from the front, pull a few strings here and there, and you can be on your merry way to the United States. Of course, your Aura would contest with that."

Jaune sighed. "That's fine, sir. I can wait."

Weiss snapped her head at him. "What?"

"It's okay, Weiss. You can go on ahead. I still have a job to do here, after all."

"Jaune, stop! We can pull a few strings. We can get you out of here in one piece! It's much safer in the United States than—"

"I can't leave the guys behind. I can't stand being way over there in some cozy mansion working as a butler while Baz and the guys are freezing their asses over here."

"Then," she stammered, "w-we can arrange for their service as well! A whole detail of servants!"

He laid his hand over hers. "Weiss, it's alright. I was drafted. Most of us were drafted. And while a lot of us want to be anywhere but here, we still have a job to do and we're going to do it. It's our best ticket home at this point."

Weiss was silent. Balled fists trembled over his lap until she leveled a fierce glare at the British officer. "If that is the case... Promise me, captain, that Jaune will not be involved in any more of your insane tactical plans. He may have his Aura to protect him but he is still a vulnerable human being."

Hillard was unfazed by her finger dabbing into his chest. "I cannot give you my word."

"Then give me your guarantee as a gentleman!" the former heiress snapped.

"Weiss—"

She ignored the sergeant. "Tell me definitively that he will be fine! Give me your assurance that he won't be maimed or torn apart!"

"Weiss!" Jaune leapt off his bed and grabbed her before she could throw her fists or, much worse, conjure a glyph. "Calm down."

"No promises, Miss Schnee," Hillard calmly replied. "However, for your sake, I will try to minimize the risk of casualties." He turned to the blonde. "The same goes to you, Jaune. The high command has ambitions for you and I will do my best to curb any attempt to exploit your abilities."

"I'm not a tool, sir."

"No, you are not. But in the grand scheme of things, we are all but expendable pawns." With that, the British captain departed them.

* * *

Jaune watched the door click shut, leaving them the sole occupants of the ward. He looked down and retracted his arms from her form.

"Jaune," Weiss muttered. "Promise me you would end your service soon."

"I...can't promise that."

She exhaled tightly. "I see. Then please don't..." Hitched breath. "...don't die. I've had enough of that."

"I won't. Weiss, I won't."

"Please." Her voice cracked. "Please, Jaune...don't die." Choked sobs and quivering hands. "Don't die..."

"I won't die," he answered her. Before he realized it, he had already taken her up in a warm embrace. She pressed her face into his shoulder; her tears seeped into his uniform while he ran his hand down her flowing white hair. "Weiss, I'll be done with this soon enough and after that, I'm moving to America. I can be a chef or maybe even your cake butler too, if you want."

Her sobs turned to bitter chuckles. "Can you even cook?"

"You'd be surprised," he said with a small grin. "Given I haven't been in a kitchen in a long time so I'm a bit rusty in the chef department."

"You dolt," she half-cried, half-chortled. Her head fell again on his chest, eyes glazed towards the window where snow blanketed the buildings and the streets. A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "They say that I have the walk of an Englishwoman but the voice of an American. Then again, I've lived in Russia for over a year where having a German-sounding name would be a death wish."

"And now you're learning French," Jaune continued for her.

She pulled away to wipe her face. "We're both aliens in this world. No relatives, no home, to origins on any map. Remnant is leagues away in some other universe."

"So what does that mean for us?" he asked her while brushing away a strands of her hair from her forehead.

"All I can think of is the here and now. Our old lives are gone. We can no longer see our friends... Ruby, Yang, Blake...Nora and Ren...everyone else..."

"Weiss," he interjected. "in my first month in France, I had given up hope of ever seeing anyone from Remnant ever again. Two months later, I accepted that I would, um, y'know...not make it. In fact, I had already given up so much that I wished for the next charge to get it over with."

"Are you thinking the same now?" she sternly demanded.

He grinned. "Not anymore."

Weiss straightened her apron as she made to leave, never forgetting that stupid warm mien that had once been the bane of her existence at Beacon. She turned her head slightly to deny him the warmth radiating from her cheeks. "You better come to the United States the moment this is over. Bring your lackeys with you too, if you have to."

He tilted his head. "Weiss... Are you asking me to come live with you?"

Her cheeks suddenly flared quicker than her hair whipping him in the face when she snapped her head at him. "I only care for your safety, you intolerable blockhead! Better to leave a warzone while you still can!"

Jaune shrugged. "I mean... We're not going back to Remnant anytime soon now so..."

"I know," Weiss exhaled. "This is our life now. Earth is our home. No Grimm, no Dust...no way of going back."

"Look. By now, I'm pretty sure everyone at home has already accepted that we're dead. But I just realized that right now, they're probably moving forward for our sakes. To them, we're probably treasured memories that keep them going." The blonde sergeant ran his hand through his hair, combing through the scar fissured across his forehead. "And as much as it hurts me to admit it...thinking about Pyrrha...thinking about you... is starting to make me want to keep moving forward."

"Then let us," the former heiress concluded. "If we're dead, then this is our second chance at life. So let's make the most of it."

He cheekily saluted her. "Yes, ma'am."

"Stop pandering, you dolt."

"Whatever you say, Snow Angel."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 5, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 17, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 17, 2018**


	23. September 20, 1918

**NOTE: The penultimate chapter for Act Two, ladies and gentlemen.**

* * *

 _September 20, 1918_

* * *

The morning dawned and Jaune was already packing to rejoin Baz, Avi, and Gosse as well as five other faces that would soon constitute the new responsibility entrusted to him.

"Jaune."

He slipped his hands through the straps of his backpack and stood to face Weiss standing at the foot of his bed. "I'm fine, Weiss."

She kept mum until he had shuffled past her to the door. "You're a team leader again now. I know how hard it is for you. How this reminds you of..."

Jaune exhaled. "I know. I believe that Ren and Nora are faring better than we both are. Wherever they are."

"I'll walk you out..." Her figure was already beside him, her hand reaching out to the door. "...if you don't mind."

"No. That's okay. Let's go."

Weiss did not budge, her fingers wrapped tightly around the handle. "I wish you all the best, Jaune. Please take care and stay safe." For a moment, her breathing was uneven. "Don't forget to brush your teeth and wash your face. Always keep the snow out of your boots. Drink lots of water, eat healthy..."

Jaune allowed a bit of a smile as he patted her on the shoulder. "Will do."

"...and write back. Do you understand?"

"I will, Weiss. I will." Then he cupped her pale hand and helped it to push down on the handle so they could leave.

* * *

The moment Jaune stepped through the main doors of Arkhangelsk's only hospital, he was greeted by eight men standing at attention. Three of whom he recognized. The rest were vaguely familiar faces, members of his new command as a sergeant. His first full squadron.

Looking back up the steps, he saw Weiss standing behind him, her hands neatly folded below her chest as she maintained her classic disapproving mien. Not that she was actually disapproving but she was neither as excited as others believed her to be.

Sergeant Ionas Arkos inhaled deeply. Time to be the leader that he had once been in a world leagues away. He released his breath with that familiar fire of command.

" _En place repos_!"

* * *

It was strange but Weiss found the scene homely in a way. Watching Jaune issue drill commands and earn the respect of his new squad filled her with a rare pride. She would have hated to admit it but she could not deny this warm feeling she would get whenever she saw, much less heard, about Jaune's accomplishments in the field.

"Isha, _vot tebya_!" called Anastasia. "I was looking for you."

Weiss nodded at her. "Am I needed?"

"Not yet. We should prepare. Another hunter was brought in. His wounds are severe."

The white-haired girl turned back to the yard to find Jaune nodding back up at her while his subordinates filed through the main gate. He hefted the sling of his rifle over his shoulder and bade, "I'll keep in touch."

"Be careful, you dolt!" she barked back a little too timidly. "I can't always be here to help treat your wounds!"

A wave of his hand was her reply as he disappeared into the mass of soldiers crowding in the street. Weiss felt Anya tugging on her wrist.

" _Davay_ , Isha."

Her feet were rotted to the steps with her mind screaming at her to get back to work. Weiss did not know why she resisted for a moment, tracing the blue cusp of Jaune's dented helmet until it vanished among the many other similar headgear bobbing up and the down as Captain Causson's command marched towards their next objective in this campaign.

"He'll be fine," Anastasia assured her. "Have faith."

"I'm trying," Weiss whispered back.

* * *

Later that evening, Weiss walked into her room to find Anastasia flaunting the nightgown that she thought was lost during their escape from the Ipatiev House. The fact that there were bulges in some areas reminded her that the pockets she had helped sew into it still held the precious Romanov jewelry.

"I thought that was gone!" the white-haired girl remarked. "How did...?"

Anya chuckled as she adopted the classic royal pose that would have made for a perfect commissioned painting. "Never underestimate the skill of a Romanov, Isha."

Weiss pulled on a sleeve and ran her hand up to the waistband where her fingers met the rugged bulges of bejeweled rings, bracelets, and necklaces. "How did you keep this hidden? We were practically trekking through the wilderness with only the clothes on our backs!"

"Another thing to thank God for the skills and talents He gave to _Gospodin_ Dverko and his associates," the grand duchess replied softly.

"Huh." Weiss sat on her bed. "Well...at least you still have some wealth left."

"These belong to generations of our family. But bread is better than stones."

"You're not that poor."

The grand duchess grinned. "You may never know. We have been through a lot. Faced death many times. How exciting can life get after this?"

Folded arms and a raised brow over an unimpressed mien. "I'd rather not tempt fate."

Anastasia fished her hand into her collar and dug through her cleavage. A bright ruby gemstone emerged in her palm that she held out to her roommate. "Here. This should be enough to buy you a wedding dress."

Weiss rolled her eyes. "Ha-ha. I'm not getting married!"

"For now," Anya snickered. "But maybe in a year's time."

"As if I'd be entertaining any suitors."

"They would all be disappointed."

"Exactly."

"Because you already have one."

"Anya!"

The grand duchess burst into laughter, dodging the pillow thrown at her. "May I be a bridesmaid~?"

The white-haired girl glowered at her. "Enough, you! It's been a long day and I need my rest."

"It is still early."

"It's dark outside."

"... You know, I really am thinking about disposing of these jewels. We need money for our new lives."

The former heiress picked up the ruby and held it against the lamp. The purity of the stone glistened back at her. For a moment, she remembered Ruby and her naivety, optimism, and childishness. And Yang, uncouth as she was, would always see to the best of her sister the same way the gold ringed around the gemstone squeezed between her fingers.

She heard Anya chuckle and watched her place pull two more gemstones out from her chest. "I forgot how difficult it was to sleep in this."

Round onyx on a ring and smooth diamond embedded into a bracelet clattered over the wooden sheen of her bedside table. Weiss scooped up the ornaments. "Mind if I hold on to these?"

"You can have them. They are as much yours as they are ours."

"Thanks." She then deposited them in the wooden box that held her letters with Jaune. "Do you have any...blue gemstones on you?"

"Do you need it now?" the grand duchess moaned as she changed into a different nightgown.

"No. I'm only...asking."

The folded bejeweled dress was handed to her along with a joking grin. "You find it."

Weiss grabbed the garment and placed it on her desk. "Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired."

"You're always tired."

"It's been a busy day, Anya. You know that. Especially when we had to help the doctor perform surgery on that hunter."

"Strange that we are getting more animal attacks than usual."

The white-haired girl sighed. "The wildlife must be agitated by all the fighting." It sounded like a poor explanation but better that than dwelling on the absurd thought of... _those_...creatures lurking out there in the woods. Then again, with her and Jaune being here, could it be possible for...?

No. Weiss banished those musings and settled for talking about something else entirely until they both fell asleep.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 16, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 23, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 23, 2018**

 **NOTE: Act Two is almost done. Act Three has been outlined (several times) and already being drafted.**


	24. October 6, 1918 - ACT II end

_October 6, 1918_

* * *

Sergeant Ionas Arkos stood at parade rest being the man at the end of his squadron, as the modest fanfare reached a crescendo with the appearance of the Romanovs and their retinue. The marching band played their music, the crowds cheered mildly, and platoons representing each Allied nation participating in this campaign lined the street leading to the docks to formally see off the imperial family into exile.

Three American ships sat at the end of the pier: two escort destroyers and a cruiser awaiting its precious cargo.

" _Spasiba_ , _bratsi_!" bade Tsar Nicholas II with a final wave after a brief yet genuine exposition on his love for his country that now clearly despised him. " _Spasiba_ , _vse_! _Do svidanya_ , _Rossiya_!"

Tsaritsa Alexandra Fedorovna dabbed her face with a napkin. Her children equally waved goodbye at the public, young Aleksei remaining optimistically cheerful alongside Anastasia who stayed at the base of the staircase waiting for the last member of their entourage to board, the unofficial ' _freylina_ ' Weiss Schnee, more popularly known among the interventionists as Russia's own Snow White.

For her part, the white-haired girl stood on the wooden boards of the pier that stretched to the hull of the ship, one of the last to dock in Northern Russia before the waters would freeze over. The wind blew through her ponytail, bristling through strands of her hair dipping from under her ushanka, and rippling up to the hems of her thick fur coat.

Jaune found it a mesmerizing sight having forgotten his blistered feet aching in his boots. She looked across the field, over their heads, then to him. Her cold, steely mien softened. They both knew that this would be the last time in a long time they would be seeing each other in person.

So he held her gaze until she closed the distance.

* * *

"Isha," Anya beckoned. "It's time to go."

Weiss breathed deep and turned around. She scoured the mass of bodies before her; the Allied high command stood proudly with their men. The Americans, always entertained by bearing personal witness to real monarchs, appeared excited despite the cold. The British stoically kept their flank.

She met the omniscient smirk of Captain Hillard and internally wished that this would be the last time she saw him. Her gaze trailed passed him to the blue French line, from Captain Causson all the way to where a blonde sergeant stood rigid and at attention with his rifle at his hip.

The crowds faded into insignificance as her boots clicked against the gravel until she was in front of him.

"Goodbye, Weiss," he bade.

"Goodbye, Jaune." She then seized his lapels and gracefully pressed her lips up onto his.

Quick, soft, meaningful. Weiss released her hold and walked briskly across the yard, past bewildered onlookers, up the steps, and onto the deck of the cruiser where she retained her nonchalance towards the knowing smirks of Anastasia, Aleksei, and even the tsar.

Together, they waved over the bannister as the horns blew and the ship steamed away. For Weiss, she kept herself close to the bannister, her eyes locked onto Jaune's until he eventually disappeared beyond the snowcapped terrain of Northern Russia.

* * *

"Isha."

Weiss turned from the bannister after they had sailed into the thick mist hanging over the White Sea. "Yes?"

Anya had a slight curl to her lip as she wrapped her coat tighter around herself. "What do you feel about Jaune?"

Weiss blinked and stuttered, "W-what do you mean?"

The grand duchess giggled. "What do you feel about him?"

Gulping down on her own saliva, she answered, "He's a rigid dolt of a friend, that's what he is."

"Oh? And do friends kiss like that?"

The white-haired girl groaned into her palms. "Ugh... I shouldn't have done that."

"I hear no regrets~"

"What was I thinking?"

"You were thinking with your heart," sniggered the grand duchess. "There is no harm in it. In fact, I believe that is good for one's health."

Weiss scowled at her. "Enough with this nonsense, already."

"What nonsense? You kissed him in front of half the town. In front of some journalists as well."

The former heiress went back to sulking. "I'll find every tabloid that prints that story and burn it. No; better yet, I'll give them to the train conductors as fuel for their locomotives."

Aleksei's laughter echoed back at them. "I will bear the rings, Isha."

"The joke has grown stale. Drop it," she barked to which the young prince only grinned at her. Much the same way as Anya did. Weiss had half a mind to consider that Anya was grooming her brother to be as mischievous as she was. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

Aleksei shrugged. "Would you like to come down with us? It is foggy up here and there is not much to see."

Weiss looked back at the horizon that was now obscured in clouds. It had been quite a year. Witness to the collapse of a dynasty, an empire crumbling, and swept up in the tides of revolution and civil war. All in all, it was a chapter in her life that she never thought she would ever experience. And now, she was leaving this all behind and entering another land, possibly with its own chain of events that would never cease to make a day dull.

She recalled enrolling at Beacon to spite her father, to escape the confines of the society she had been raised in. She remembered being educated to be the finest protectors of humanity in a world infested with soulless shadows. She shuddered a bit at the memory of the Fall and the pivotal moment that had banished her here to an even bigger world with bigger problems.

As grim as some of her recollections were, the white-haired girl felt nostalgic. It had been quite the adventure as Anya would have put it. Or as Ruby would have put it. Yang would sit back and stretch her arms to relax while Blake would have stared out into the distance in the same way she was right now.

And now Jaune...

So much has happened... Weiss felt overwhelmed. This couldn't be over; there was more to come, a small voice in the back of her mind argued. And she could only agree.

"Isha, would you like to come downstairs?" repeated Anastasia.

Weiss nodded. For now, it seemed better to dwell on something else. Musing morosely on the edge of a ship was not always a good thing. Her strides were heavy making every step a strident push to get her off the upper deck and into the warmer confines of the ship.

"I could lend you a book," Anya suggested morosely. "I cannot say that I fully know what you are feeling right now but let me give you a distraction."

The white-haired girl sighed. "That would be nice. Thanks."

" _Horosho_! I could get us some cookies as well. No tea yet, though. Just milk."

Weiss smiled at that. "Even better."

* * *

Even after the ceremonies ended and they were dismissed to their barracks, Jaune returned to the empty pier and sat on a crate while he surveyed the White Sea being shrouded by grey winter clouds. Boots clicked against the cobblestone but he did not acknowledge the presence until he heard Causson announce, "And so ends a chapter in the tale of the Snow White and the Yellow Huntsman."

"I'd prefer no one write that down, sir," the blonde sergeant remarked offhandedly.

"You should rest. We have work to do tomorrow."

He sighed and fiddled his fingers against the dent in his helmet. "I know. I'll be there shortly."

"I recommend you retire early to make your preparations. We will be moving further inland alongside the Americans to support our gains there."

Jaune returned to gazing at the cold waters, listening through the noise of the waves lapping against the moles under the pier. A soothing break from the monotony of this soldier's life in the frigid north. The sergeant slowly turned to his superior. "Sir, I've been thinking... When this is all over...I was considering moving to the United States. Lot of opportunities, I've heard."

The officer raised his brow. "Are you asking me for permission?"

"Do I have to? I just didn't want to leave you all hanging."

"You have done well in the service of the Republic, Jaune." An assuring tap on his shoulder. "You already have my blessing."

Jaune grinned. " _Merci_ , _Capitaine_."

It was going to be a long, hard winter but Sergeant Ionas Arkos felt confidently warm. The cold didn't bother him much anymore.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 11, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: September 25, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 25, 2018**

 **NOTE: And so ends Act Two. This was intended to be a slow transition into Act Three which would be more adventurous as I felt the need to directly address the wake of the reunion between Jaune and Weiss and establish the nature of their relationship as well as test their bond.** **Also, the next act might take a slight shift in dynamic but let's see how that turns out.**

 **Again, many thanks for the reception that got my brain churning out ideas that got this story this far. I hope that this story continues to entertain you guys as much as it has been a fun learning experience for me.**

 **Here's a bit from Act Three:**

* * *

There was something in those words that encased Jaune. Mercenaries had always been a thing in conflicts. In Remnant, Huntsmen often doubled as mercenaries which was why there so many rogue elements operating in isolated regions such as the deserts of Vacuo or the swamps south of Mistral. "Maybe they were exaggerating. The papers do that all the time."

"That was what we thought. Until we learned about you and your special case that you share with Miss Schnee."

The blonde sergeant felt his blood run cold. "What do you mean?"

"We believe...that you and Miss Schnee are not alone."

Jaune blinked. He could possibly mean what he thought he meant. With how long they had been here, it seemed downright impossible for anyone else to have followed suit. Unless that fateful incident during the Fall had something to do with it... "I...find it hard to believe...what you're insinuating."

The older man nodded understandably. "We could be wrong. However, there is much evidence to support the possibility that you and Miss Schnee are of the same ilk as these people."

"No. Your intel's off. Has to be. It's impossible! They'd be making waves in—"

"And they are. Which is why I'm talking to you. You know restraint. Who knows what could have happened if you had been a different person, abusing your capabilities. More unnecessary deaths, wars that would have not ended sooner, spawning other conflicts that would continue to bleed the world dry." A tense pause. "Our hands are full. This is a prime window of opportunity and you are our only option."

His mind took a full moment to process that before he slunk back into his seat in complete disbelief. "I can see where this is going...sort of. I don't have much of a choice now, do I?"

"I am sure, by now, you know the answer to that."


	25. INTERLUDE - December 24, 1918

_December 24, 1918_

* * *

Weiss crossed the street to the post office with two envelopes in her purse, ignoring the people who stopped to gawk at the bun of her hair dipping from her light winter headwear. Turning a new leaf was a proving a bit complicated; these Americans were a people of mixed cultures almost alien to what she had gotten used to in Eastern Europe. Though it did bring a mild familiarity of Remnant.

"Morning, Miss Schnee," greeted the postman from the warm comfort of his booth.

"Good morning, Charles," she greeted back, forwarding her the letters across the table.

Charles offered her a sympathetic look before picking up his pen. "I don't think a lot of ships would heading up to Russia this time of year but we'll try."

"Thank you."

"What about this one?"

"That's for the Bismarck Tribune."

"Have something to say, eh? Can't say I blame you."

"I thought I'd lend my voice to the matter."

The postman nodded. "Yeah. If you ask me, they should send our boys home. The war's over, after all. No sense getting involved, you know. Helping the Russians kill each other."

Weiss kept her mien neutral. The Great War finally ended a month ago via an armistice signed inside a rail car out of all places. But that did not mean that the fighting stopped. Soldiers were still out in the field, risking their lives, staving off frostbite while burying themselves in the snow to hide from Bolshevik marksmen. Journalists and pundits echoed war weariness. Families were writing letters to the government asking for the return of their sons and brothers.

And after enough time, thought, and deep-seated conversations with the Romanovs, Weiss decided to lend her voice in this whole affair via an anonymous letter to the state newsletter. Besides, it had been a while since she wrote a letter to Jaune what with how busy they were moving around the continental United States before finally settling into their new property in the rural plains of North Dakota.

"How fast can you get it there?"

"Well, Bismarck's only a day away even in this weather. Russia, though...I can't say. Honestly, you should've just used the telegram. Much quicker that way."

"I have my preferences."

Charles shrugged as he gathered her letters. "Suit yourself. Say, I got this nagging thought though. I hope you don't mind me asking."

Weiss raised her brow. "What is it?"

"I mean no offense. Just curious." He twiddled his thumbs nervously before continuing, "Are you friends with Forked Lightning? You know, that famous French soldier who survived getting shot and blown up ten times?"

The former heiress let out a long sigh. How many times did she have to entertain that query?

"You don't have to answer! I was only asking—"

"Yes. I know him. Is that enough?"

Charles nodded. "Good enough! Uh, have a good day."

"Likewise."

"Oh, almost forgot. Merry Christmas!"

Weiss paused halfway through the door. "Merry...Christmas...to you too, Charles."

* * *

Jaune ushered his squad across the unpaved road towards the blockhouse hastily constructed by the Americans. He bit his lip at the agony searing up from his feet which were suffering from the snow melting in his boots. Inside, the steam of warm milk graced the skin on his bare face and he savored the heat radiating off the mug given him by the lieutenant commanding their regiment.

"Good work out there," the officer commended in fluent English.

"Thank you, sir," the blonde sergeant replied modestly.

"Anything to report?"

"Nothing." Yet. Jaune suspected the farmers they had passed by on their way here were informants. "Anything happen here, sir?"

Lieutenant Thibald Vastel shook his head, downing his cup and peering through one of the portholes. He withdrew then repeatedly tapped against the table until he had the attention of the entire platoon.

" _Bon travail_!" The officer then raised his cup. " _Joyeux No_ _ë_ _l_!"

Jaune watched the rest of the soldiers—some of whom were still shivering from the cold—raise their cups with meek smiles.

" _Joyeux No_ _ë_ _l_! _Joyeux No_ _ë_ _l_!"

The blonde sergeant hid his mirth as everyone raised their voices in festivity to this winter holiday. He nursed his mug, savoring the warmth from his milk. This was probably the only time morale would be this high. Last month's armistice took away the biggest motivation for this campaign.

The Great War was over. Germany was defeated. The Allies were victorious. But they were still here in Russia losing their fingers and toes to frostbite, wondering why they were still fighting.

" _Joyeux No_ _ë_ _l_ , Jaune," echoed Baz with a clap on his shoulder.

The blonde sergeant gazed into his drink. This holiday was about giving and sacrifice. Suitably, they were giving their all and sacrificing their lives. Jaune's old self would have scoffed and gladly accepted the inevitable fate of dying forgotten in these frozen tundras. But Weiss...

She would be waiting for him.

She was waiting for him.

A condolence letter would be the most cruel Christmas gift.

" _Joyeux No_ _ë_ _l_ ," Sergeant Jaune Arc finally answered with a toast, mind resolute and caring less about fighting to destroy Bolshevism than fighting until General Ironside would finally send him home.

* * *

The manor house was decorated with enough lights to illuminate a dark urban alleyway. The Romanovs had insisted on a modest Christmas dinner with their friends. Instead, Weiss was chauffeured by Mister Trupp into a small holiday ball held and financed by the exiled Russian aristocratic nobility.

It was more a formal event than a genuine thanksgiving for their harrowing escape from the Bolshevisk and rescue by the interventionists. At least the American government staved off any journalists. Weiss could easily foretell that in the next hundred years, the media would be no different than the hungry gossipmongers of Remnant.

"Isha, you're back," greeted Anastasia in a shimmering cream gown. "We started two hours ago. I was looking for you!"

Weiss nonchalantly handed her coat to Mister Trupp, revealing a neat glittering frock underneath a blue petticoat, while she crossed the antechamber into the main hall where a handful of guests in fine suits, silk dresses, and feather boas entertained themselves in the presence of Tsar Nicholas the Second and Tsaritsa Alexandra chatting with practiced smiles with what appeared to be an American businessman.

The former heiress hid her grimace drawn from the eerie resemblance some of these guests had with her father. Given another ten or twenty years, half the men here would look like him. It was like she had traveled back in time to her grandfather's galas.

"Are you alright?"

Weiss flashed Anya a small smile while she adjusted her tiara. "I'm fine. Where is Lyoshka?"

"Behaving."

The two ladies giggled then wove through the crowd until they found the tsesarevich pouting at Olga, probably for chastising him. From there, it was back to the practiced grace and polity.

"I've never heard of anyone named Schnee."

"Peculiar for your parents named you after Snow White."

"I never thought Germans had natural white hair."

Weiss internally sighed. It was back to the same kind of attention. At least she was still somewhat of a stranger so that made it easier.

"You don't happen to be acquainted with Sergeant Ionas Arkos, do you?"

"Are you that girl who kissed that Frenchman?"

"How brave of you to publicly display your affections to so many people!"

Weiss groaned inwardly. Damn war correspondents. She quietly withdrew to the buffet table while Anya distracted the socialites, some of whom were asking to confirm a rumor from the post office that Lady Schnee knew the famous war hero 'intimately.' Damn it, Charles!

"This is your second Christmas," remarked Doctor Botkin. "How are you finding it?"

"Warmer than the last."

The physician chuckled. "I suppose."

"Hard to believe it's nearly two years now since I first appeared," she mused. "I feel...reincarnated."

Weiss understood that this holiday was supposed to mean something. Something warm amid the cold. Yet even as the snow piled against the window sills and the laughter and banter echoed from within the walls of the mansion, the white-haired girl could barely feel the elation.

"I could say I feel the same way," Doctor Botkin replied. "Perhaps, from now on, things would be back to normal. Would you agree?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps this indeed my Christmas gift. A new home."

This was her life now. Just like back in Atlas. However, unlike before, this was more like a real home. With a family that actually cared. And a deposed emperor who treated her like one of his own children.

Lady Weiss Schnee looked into her glass of punch and huffed at her reflection. Merry Christmas, indeed.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 2, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 5, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 3, 2018**

 **NOTE: How are you guys finding the story so far?**

* * *

 **NOTE (October 5, 2018): As requested, I'll be including translations for the foreign language phrases.  
**

 ** _Bon_ _travail_!= Good work!**

 ** _Joyeux No_ _ë_ _l_! = Merry Christmas!**


	26. ACT III - May 17, 1919

**NOTE: Act III, everyone! Also, updates may take longer to come out.**

* * *

 _May 17, 1919_

* * *

Sergeant Ionas 'Jaune Arc' Arkos surveyed the squadron under his direct command. He may be a year shy of his twentieth but he commanded enough respect to earn the total submission and loyalty of the eight men standing in front of him. It was a quick inspection. Mostly ceremonial than routine but it was enough to reinforce their esprit de corps in the wake of all their troubles here in Northern Russia.

The past seasons had been difficult. Incapacitating winter, numbing disease, lack of supply... Plummeting morale, mutiny after mutiny after mutiny that led to the slow piecemeal withdrawal of Allied forces from the country altogether...

He was grateful that their platoon in particular held steadfast despite the turn of the tide. It took a lot of effort to do their job when a large fraction of their comrades were either being courtmartialed for insubordination or evacuated from Russia. In hindsight, they were lucky they were not attached to the White Army regiments—reports of disgruntled Russians murdering their Western advisers were widespread.

Shortly after being dismissed from the parade grounds by Lieutenant Thibald Vastel, Jaune was back in the wide bivouac he helped his men set up, half of whom were sharing cigarettes and drinking honeyed milk from dented tin cups, luxuries that were fast dwindling with the way this whole expedition was turning out.

At least Hillard was finally out of his hair. Transferred elsewhere by the new expedition commander General Edmund Ironside back in late November, shortly after the armistice. Last he heard, the man was in the British Raj halfway across the world.

" _Orl_ _é_ _ans me manque_ ," remarked Private Yver, the youngest in their group.

Corporal Bazouille grunted in agreement. " _Cholet me manque_."

" _Et toi_ , _Sergent_?" asked Private Gaspard.

Jaune emptied his drink before answering offhandedly, " _Mes amis en Am_ _é_ _rique me manquent_."

He smiled at the round of chuckles and soft hoots. The blonde sergeant had long since gotten used to the jokes Baz, Avi, and Gosse made at his expense, finding the levity refreshing. Though he did vigorously discourage attempts to put down on paper that stupid 'Snow White and the Yellow Huntsman' fairy tale his men were making up.

Sergeant Arkos smirked at a humorous anecdote recounted by Private Sabenoux. From his peripheries, Jaune could trace a ghost of a smile on Vastel's face as he looked their way, the veteran of the Hundred Days Offensive sharing some lighthearted banter with Causson and the other lieutenants. The mood was uplifting and Jaune savored every minute of it.

Because in ten minutes, it would be back to the same depressing monotony of their duty: defending their swiftly shrinking gains against a better equipped, more determined, and numerically superior Red Army.

* * *

Weiss walked down the corridor of their North Dakota estate to the wide parlor with a foil and her Cossack cavalry saber, a gift from the exiled Grand Duke Nikolay Nikolaevich for saving the imperial family. Upon entry, she politely greeted their guest: some gentleman claiming to be a distant Romanov relative.

It was tiresome entertaining exiled nobles babbling about their previous aristocratic lives while lamenting the current affairs. The former heiress simply nodded her head with practiced smiles while constantly assuring their guests that she was not affiliated in anyway with the dethroned Kaiser or his circle...or any member of House Hohenzollern for that fact, no matter how German her name sounded. It earned her some favor with the German migrant population however.

Germany itself had fallen to the fires of revolution, damned to pay humiliating indemnities to the victorious Western Allies. Austria-Hungary was effectively balkanized while the Ottomans fractured before the ever-hungry Greeks. All the while Russia still bled.

"Terrible, terrible state of affairs in the world today," prattled Duke Romanov Something of Somewhere. "That is not to mention that damnable flu that has put down so many soldiers before they had even a chance to fire their guns. And we have another powder keg waiting to go off in China..."

Weiss tuned him out, instead coming up with some way to ease her way out of this agonizing exercise in patience she had walked into. She looked around, glancing to Anya who shared her subtly irritation. Young Alexei was struggling not to display his displeasure, sitting close to an inconspicuously disinterested Tsaritsa Alexandra.

It was clear half the family would rather be elsewhere right now doing something else. Like tending to the garden terraces surrounding the mansion or building a toolshed in the back by the woods. Or fencing lessons for the Romanov siblings.

As Mister Trupp served them tea and biscuits, Weiss took the opportunity to mutter an excuse. Anya clearly wanted to echo the same, visibly itching run up to her room and grab her foil so they could train, but being related—dubiously—in some way to their visitor ensured she would have to sit through the rest of it.

"Family first," the white-haired girl teased quietly.

"Just go," the grand duchess mumbled through her teeth.

Weiss smiled at the nobleman whom she heard ask the tsar about her strangely-colored hair as she passed by. She emerged patio providing a pristine view of the landscape that stretched below. It was perfectly serene, reminiscent of the ornate forecourts where she and Winter would escape to and drink tea together.

She walked down the steps to the gazebo in the middle of the gardens and sat on a bench; today's fencing sessions would have to be postpone until after the guest left. Which was probably late in the afternoon or well after dinner.

In the meantime, she let her mind wander freely. It had been quite the adventure, as Anya loved to put it. Her fingers brushed over the jewelry she always wore on her person: the gold rings that bore a finely polished ruby and an oval onyx, the silver bracelet encapsulating a shimmering diamond, and a gold necklace chain with a pendant that housed immaculate sapphire.

With the breeze blowing freely through her hair, she set the foil aside and planted the sheathed blade onto the concrete like a cane and muttered a soft prayer to the Romanov's Christian God for Jaune's safety in a crumbling expedition and the well-being of Ruby, Yang, and Blake in a world far, far away.

* * *

" _Sergent_ Arkos."

French military practice dictated Jaune stand up and salute his superior but knowing Vastel and how far they were from base, he was too lazy to so match as bat an eye to the lieutenant striding up to where he was. Besides, Russian nights proved to be cold no matter the season and he was comfortable enough as it is sitting on this crate. "Lieutenant."

"Thank God for the moon. It has made this a serene landscape without the sun to beautify it. I have friends who would have loved to paint this."

Jaune huffed in agreement, wrapping his arms together with his rifle tugged ever closer to his chest. Before him lay an empty spring wilderness, a swathe of empty territory they were to defend. Somewhere out there, in the dark, some Bolshevik was probably sizing him up through the scope of his gun. "They'd probably leave out the dead bodies, huh."

Vastel sniggered. "Not unless they adhered to what these new 'art' movements have been blabbering about."

The blonde sergeant grunted. The rest of his squad were already asleep in their cots, sheltered in their dug-out. He heard rustling and Vastel was already leaning against the standing half of a tree with a lantern placed against his boot, a freshly-lit cigarette flickering in his mouth.

"Smoke?"

Jaune declined. Weiss would hate that. She hated most vices.

Vastel shrugged then puffed out a cloud before casually inquiring, "What do you think of the Far East?"

He had no idea what to think. All he knew was that it was sort of like Mistral in a way. That and the Allies also occupied the town of Vladivostok with the help of the Japanese. Or something along those lines—they had sporadic access to newspapers and word of mouth often exaggerated the reports of war correspondents. "That...it's in the far east. No sarcasm meant, sir."

The lieutenant grunted. "Well said." Another drag on his stick. "Give me your hand, please."

Now, Jaune moved to gawk at his superior. "Sir?"

"Give me your hand."

It took him a moment before he relented and offered an open hand.

Vastel took one long drag on his cigarette then grabbed his wrist and speared the lit end into his palm. Of course, the blonde sergeant snarled and pulled back, clutching his hand and seeing his Aura glow faintly over his skin as it sealed up the burn.

" _Ç_ _'est quoi ce bordel_!?" Jaune nearly screamed.

The officer shrugged and answered, " _D_ _ésolé_. I wanted to see in person how your, em, abilities work. I am very much in awe."

Jaune glared daggers at him while hissing, "Why!? You just wanted to see!?"

Vastel unapologetically replied, "We have rarely been sent out to fight, as you may have noticed. Most of the work goes to the Americans and the British. Us _Fran_ _ç_ _ais_? We stay behind and help carry the bullets." He pulled out and lit another cigarette. "I know General Ironside sees you as too valuable to lose but he cannot send you home as well. Not yet, at least."

"What?" Did Ironside have full authority to send him home this whole time? And he refused? And what the hell did he mean 'not yet'? What else was he being kept around for anyway? If he were a lesser man, he would have joined the mutiny and snuck aboard one of the supply ships leaving for Britain. What point was there in fighting the Bolsheviks now after they had reversed their gains?

As far as he can tell from the reports filtering through the grapevine, their expedition was going sideways. They never linked up with Admiral Kolchak. General Denikin's offensive into the Bolshevik capital was petering out. Baron Wrangel was off elsewhere, probably going in the other direction. Not to mention public support from the rest of the world had long since waned.

Probably their best success was rescuing Weiss and the Romanovs. The Czechoslovak Legion probably made it to safety on the other side of the country. The stockpiles though...

"I have heard much about you," the lieutenant continued, "I thought you were either a product of our own propaganda or some really unlucky fool who survived more times than he should have. Then I was sent here, I read the reports, I heard with my own ears from credible sources...I had to see for myself."

"We skirmished with scouts and raiders hitting our supply lines," Jaune seethed, "I suffered flesh wounds. You were there! How did you not see!?"

"I was busy keeping you all alive. Besides, I was not thoroughly convinced. So I do apologize for having to resort to this measure to know for sure."

Sergeant Arkos clenched his fists, resisting the urge to sock this bastard where he stood. "Well, I hope you're happy. I'm going to sleep."

Vastel called out to him in the dark as he trudged back to his men. "What do you think of the Far East, Jaune?"

"I think I'd shoot myself before I get redeployed there!" he snapped back only to hear laughter and the sound of the officer's boots crunching in the dirt. Who cares about the Far East? The British, Americans, and the Japanese have it all under control. He was just waiting for the end of his service so he can finally be relieved of duty. And be free to migrate to America where Weiss was.

Speaking of which, he pulled out his satchel and reread through some of their older letters in the flickering light of his oil lamp. North Dakota sounded like a nice place to settle. Vast tracts of land, colorful people. Kind of like Vale in a way.

"Far East my ass..."

* * *

Weiss took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the hilt of her saber. While a different form in contrast to Myrtenaster, it was more than enough to serve as a conduit for her Semblance. She raised the blade forward and the glyph shimmering on the floor expanded.

Several deep breaths later, something began to coalesce. Flakes of ice crested out of nothingness to merge into a rising figure. Greaves to gauntlets, breastplate to pauldrons to helmet. And a massive cleaver of a sword crystalizing into existence in the being's arms.

She released her breath, able to relax her shoulders. Finally. Definitive progress in the mastery of her Semblance. And, though exhaustive, it took less effort than the last. Winter would have been proud.

Her Arma Gigas, towering over her twice over, bowed its head in clear reverence to its master.

The former heiress beamed from ear to ear as the late night wind blew through the shattered window of her private quarters. She swept her bare feet against the shards of glass spread over the carpet, brushing them aside before she strode to the window sill to greet the cold evening air. "Great. Did not mean to do that."

"We can have that fixed," intoned Tsar Nicholas the Second.

Weiss nearly jumped. Awkwardly, her Arma Gigas turned on its heel to the source of the sound but remained at attention, never acting against the intrusion to her privacy. "How long have you been standing there!?"

Tsar Nicholas, Tsaritsa Alexandra, the Romanov siblings, and the imperial retinue all gawked from the doorway, some heads bobbed slightly to get a good look.

"We heard noise coming from your room. We feared that something might have happened," Anya finally echoed. "So we hurried and...saw this."

The white-haired girl stammered. This was not meant for prying eyes—she knew she should have done this outside! Her body went rigid while she tried to come up with some explanation. In place of disgust or fear, however, was intense curiosity. Up until Alexandra Feodorovna, though.

"If you are going to practice your art, you should at least tell us before hand so we could prepare for it," chastised the deeply religious tsaritsa. "I told you to practice safely, remember?"

Weiss gathered herself, a faint curve at the end of her lips, and bowed, muttering, "My apologies."

"So...we have a knight bodyguard now?" prodded Aleksei.

"No. He's only temporary." To emphasize her point, the Arma Gigas dissipated, leaving behind the indentations of its boots in the wood. Much to how a great burden was lifted from her shoulders, Weiss slumped in relief. "Ugh, that took so much out of me..."

Anastasia and Maria took her by the arms and helped her sit. "Even you should know that too much training is harmful," scolded the latter.

"You should rest now, Isha," added Tsar Nicholas before her clapped his hands. "Alright, that is enough for tonight. Back to bed. I trust that we all keep this completely discreet." He turned to Weiss. "And I believe you will only utilize your...creation...only when absolutely necessary. We will discuss this further in the morning."

"Of course. I do need to practice though."

"Not now," Tatiana argued. "Not tonight. You should sleep."

"Please do not damage the gardens when you do," added Olga. "It is not easy to cultivate flowers here."

"Noted. Again, I apologize." Weiss looked to her broken window and the curtains flowing in the North American wind. "Mind if I sleep in the guest quarters? Until this has been repaired?"

"I will prepare the beddings," said Mister Trupp.

Anya smirked. "I will help. Just don't do your necromantic magic in your sleep."

"It's not necromancy!" shrieked Weiss over the Romanov siblings' laughter. From the end of the corridor, before she disappeared behind her door, Alexandra Fedorovna craned her head to throw her one last glare. "Anya, don't say those things!"

"Your Semblance can create knights." The youngest grand duchess beamed. "You might make a good spy. Agent Isha! Speeding through the fields on her glyphs and hunting criminals and warmongers with her army of ice soldiers."

Weiss groaned while she gathered her blanket and offered it to Mister Trupp.

"Oh! It would be the perfect story," chirped Aleksei who was holding onto something. "Agent Isha's fiancé trapped in a war—"

"Lyoshka, be quiet and help me make my bed!"

Wait. Was that her box in his hands?

"I told you to stop reading my letters!" Weiss hollered, snatching it back and stomping off with her sheathed cavalry saber to one of the spare guest rooms as Aleksei and Anastasia trailed after her with the rest of her things, tittering and quipping how said room could be renovated to accommodate Sergeant Arkos when he decides to move in with them after his military service.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 13, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 10, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 6, 2018**

 **NOTE: Thank you so much for the reception! I'm really glad you guys are enjoying the story so far. And for the longest time, I've debated whether or not to included translations but now that you mention it, I'm putting in the ones that would fly over most people's heads. (Foreign language people, feel free to correct me.) I also admit the pacing has been slow but it'll ramp up hopefully later on.**

 **So far, we've come out of one war only to jump into another. A lot of things happened in the world in 1919. ;)**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Orl_ _é_ _ans me manque_. = I miss Orleans.**

 ** _Cholet me manque_. = I miss Cholet.**

 ** _Et toi_ , _Sergent_?= And you, sergeant? (What about you, sergeant?)**

 ** _Mes amis en Am_ _é_ _rique me manquent_. = I miss my friends in America.**

 ** _Ç'est quoi ce bordel_!? = What is this mess!? (What the fuck!?)**

 ** _Désolé_. = Sorry.**

 ** _Fran_ _ç_ _ais_ = French/Frenchmen**


	27. June 2 and 3, 1919

_June 2, 1919_

* * *

Jaune was more curious than apprehensive when Vastel ordered him to tag along to the docks. Leaving the two in their tents, the two strolled across Archangel, past dockworkers and idle American marines towards a moored British armored cruiser. There were questions along they way but they were deflected until they came aboard and were further directed below deck to the crew quarters.

Vastel opened the door to a cabin at the far end of the corridor and gestured him inside.

"Hello, Jaune. It has been awhile."

Oh fucking hell. Hillard. "Sir," Jaune reciprocated coolly. "It certainly has."

Behind him, the lieutenant shuffled in after him followed by the definitive click of the lock. Hillard then offered the vacant stool across the table. "Please. Have a seat. Would you like some milk and sugar?"

Slowly, the blonde sergeant squeezed into the empty chair, his eyes moving between him and Vastel. "Not too much nectar, please. Thank you."

The Englishman smiled at him as he poured him a cup. "It has been a long time now, Jaune. Crumpets?"

Jaune hesitantly bit off a piece as he continued to stare at Hillard, looking for something that may or may not be there. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"I thought I'd catch up, learn how things have been going on around here since my departure."

"I have a feeling that I can't tell you what you already know."

A soft chuckle. "Perceptive. How have you been?"

The blonde sergeant could not help the distrustful scowl that crossed his features as he answered, "Fine. I thought you were stationed in the Raj."

"For a time. I say, I do not miss the humidity. Then again, I also do not miss the winters here." Hillard sipped his cup in silence, appearing uncharacteristically calm and chipper. Though that could just be a facade for something more. "Have you ever had a taste of Oriental cuisine?"

"... No."

"Granted, would you be willing to savor any?"

Jaune narrowed his eyes and looked behind him for any marked boxes that hinted at anything imported from the Orient. Was this a clue that he was being sent to the Far East soon or something? He never forgot Vastel's subtle mentions of the place. In fact, the lieutenant was probably in on this. The whole damn time. Who else was involved? Causson? That would be damning if it was true.

"Oh, I haven't brought any with me," Hillard continued after catching his bouncing gaze. "You see, if you wanted to indulge in the finest exotic foods, more often than not, you would have to travel to the source."

"Where are you going with this?"

The gleam in the man's eye was disturbing. "Normally, most people would be too busy patching up the wounds they had given themselves the past five years. No one would bat an eye if China were to continue gutting herself for the vultures. Perhaps only when they would start complaining about the rising prices of their silks and spices. But I digress."

Jaune raised his brow. "China. Okay?"

"Yes. A shame, really. Once a mighty empire now reduced to a mess of squabbling warlords. It's become quite a trend now across the world. Such a shame, indeed. So many problems plaguing the mighty dragon of the Orient and at such an inopportune time as well."

The blonde sergeant pondered his words. He knew very little of the nations of Asia or the Far East apart from what he could pick up from newspapers and idle chatter. "What's wrong with China?"

Hillard's lip curved slightly. "Do you know who leads the Chinese?"

"... No."

"Neither do we. Its regimes are as dynamic and distinctive as the passing seasons. There are countless masters yet they are all bound to be subservient to the plebe sitting in Beijing. Why do you think that is?"

Jaune narrowed his eyes. "I don't know." Where was he going with this?

"It is because we—us, the great powers of the world—recognize only the authority that exists in that city. And do you know who is in Beijing right now?"

"The emperor?" It was a safe answer. The last he heard of China was that they had an emperor. Or they used to. For all he knew, its own imperial government crumbled about as dramatically as Russia, Germany, Austria-Hungary, and the Ottomans.

Hillard chuckled. "You are not wrong. The emperor, however, has been a ceremonial function for a long time."

"Uh-huh. So...who's in charge then?"

That wide beaming smile that sent a shiver down his spine. "A wily fellow by the name of Tuan Chi-jui, premier of the most influential coterie in the Chinese political spectrum."

"And what about him?"

"The man has the power to shut China's doors to the world. You see, while we were muscling with Fritz and his three musketeers, Marshal Chi-jui has been rather busy whipping things into shape over in the Far East."

And there it was. The Far East. These people were using him, that much was clear. And now they were going to derail his plans and toss him into another part of the world where he would do whatever it was they wanted. And for what? National security? Global interests? Whose security and whose interests anyway? Causson would not let this stand and probably General Ironside as well. Unless they were in on this too...?

"And how does this affect you?" Jaune demanded.

"Trade. Resources. Spices, if you ask the chefs in Paris. The whole world is intertwined; a disturbance in one area could mean a disturbance for the global balance of power, no matter how miniscule." Hillard leaned back with his omnipotent smile gone, now replaced with a cold, calculating gaze. "Do you know why I am so casually explaining such sensitive matters to a low-ranking fusilier as yourself?"

The blonde sergeant gulped. "... I was wondering that."

The Englishman sneered. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're more than a marine captain, aren't you?"

"Major, actually. Promoted so I could properly administer my duties in the Raj. Major Wilfred Fennister Hillard, Secret Service Bureau. You've been an interesting fellow, Jaune. It is about time we fully tap your potential."

"You're a spy," Jaune breathed, his knuckles white from clutching the sides of his stool, his untouched honeyed milk completely forgotten. If he had his rifle, he would have jumped up and turned this conversation into a Vacuan standoff. "This whole time. Weiss was right..."

"Miss Schnee was sharp. And for that, she has colored me impressed."

"So what now? You've been watching us? Putting microphones in the walls and listening in on us? She was worried about people reading our private letters," Jaune seethed, too furious to notice the brief confusion brushing over their faces. "She was right about that too, huh."

" _Repos_ , _Sergent_ ," Vastel interjected.

Sergeant Arkos swirled and glared up at his superior. _"Et toi_ , _Lieutenant_? _T'es_ _un espion aussi_ , _hein_? You working together or something?"

" _Repos_. _Sergent_." The lieutenant's hand rested on the grip of his holstered pistol.

"You bastards." Jaune breathed deep; a level head was better than acting impulsively. He was unarmed, surrounded by two men who could take him down physically. His Aura could provide him with an escape and his Semblance might boost him up for a time but the consequences of an incident... He would be branded a traitor, inspire more mutinies... They were willing to risk injury to themselves to force his cooperation. They trapped him good. With a heavy sigh, he growled, "What do you want?"

The silence hung tense in the room until Jaune raised his head to meet Hillard in the eye, beginning the briefing. "There are four prominent mercenaries operating in China as we speak, each serving their own lords. We would have ignored them entirely if not for the fact that they have been efficient. Very efficient. Reported to 'possess incredible skill and formidable battle prowess.'"

There was something in those words that encased Jaune. Mercenaries had always been a thing in conflicts. In Remnant, Huntsmen often doubled as mercenaries which was why there so many rogue elements operating in isolated regions such as the deserts of Vacuo or the swamps south of Mistral. "Maybe they were exaggerating. The papers do that all the time."

"That was what we thought. Until we learned about you and your special case that you share with Miss Schnee."

The blonde sergeant felt his blood run cold. "What do you mean?"

"We believe...that you and Miss Schnee are not alone."

Jaune blinked. He could possibly mean what he thought he meant. With how long they had been here, it seemed downright impossible for anyone else to have followed suit. Unless that fateful incident during the Fall had something to do with it... "I...find it hard to believe...what you're insinuating."

The older man nodded understandably. "We could be wrong. However, there is much evidence to support the possibility that you and Miss Schnee are of the same ilk as these people."

"No. Your intel's off. Has to be. It's impossible! They'd be making waves in—"

"And they are. Which is why I'm talking to you. You know restraint. Who knows what could have happened if you had been a different person, abusing your capabilities. More unnecessary deaths, wars that would have not ended sooner, spawning other conflicts that would continue to bleed the world dry." A tense pause. "Our hands are full. This is a prime window of opportunity and you are our only option."

His mind took a full moment to process that before he slunk back into his seat in complete disbelief. "I can see where this is going...sort of. I don't have much of a choice now, do I?"

"I am sure, by now, you know the answer to that."

Jaune dipped his head into his hands for a full minute before he looked up and asked, "Who are they?"

The smiling SSB major raised four fingers. "The Anfu Dragon based in Peking, most likely under the auspices of Marshal Chi-jui. The wandering Serpent Monk who has been more active in southern China. Then the mysterious Feng-t'ien Ghost aptly named because the locals believe it to be a vengeful spirit bound to serve the general who summoned it. And finally, the infamous and widely feared Demon of Mongolia. Four prominent mercenaries who have rightly earned their monickers."

Sergeant Arkos stared at him. He pursed his lips in deep thought until he finally got out, "How could you know for sure?"

"Details such as 'ripping off the wings of enemy aircraft mid-flight,' 'lightning fast movements of the human body,' and 'abnormally rapid physical regenerative properties.' All confirmed by physicians and specialists who have seen enough to be able to properly differentiate between fact and delirium. That is not to mention the countless eyewitness accounts from the lowly rice farmer to credible public officials up and down the chain of command."

Sounds like Semblances and expert Huntsman combat training. "How do I factor into this then?"

Hillard leaned forward so his elbows were planted on the table. "Only you can recognize the patterns, the techniques, the mindset. Other than Miss Schnee, you are rightly considered to have the greatest expertise in dealing with these people. As I'm sure you understand, it would be best for the world if these 'mercenaries' were contained, if not restrained."

Contained, huh. And restrained. In a Grimm-less world where Aura and Semblances did not exist, individuals blessed with the latter two have the potential to wreak havoc and possibly leverage a hand in state affairs. Jaune understood abuse of power and he had seen more than his fair share of it. Was this why they approached him? Because he was one of these unique persons?

"And if I refuse?"

"Then consider this: these people could be Huntsmen or Huntresses from Remnant. They came here somehow for some reason, maybe not of their volition, perhaps. They may or may not know of a means to maintain a traversable bridge between our universe and yours." The Englishman took a moment to measure him. "Would you not want to return home?"

The blonde sergeant wanted to retort. Except he had a point. Earth was hell but it was his new home. That did not mean that he had forgotten about Remnant; on the contrary, several times a week, he would yearn to go back. In his solitary moments, he would fantasize about life back at Beacon before the Fall. He even had occasional dreams—and some nightmares—of his family, his sisters, his friends, team JNPR, team RWBY, the Fall itself, Pyrrha's death...

It came up a lot in his letters with Weiss and they would go back and forth about it. There was some comforting solidarity when she confessed to being as homesick (and tormented by guilt) as he was. But now that the impossible dream was possibly materializing...

What about Weiss, though? What would she think of this? She was already rooted with a family and living a peaceful aristocratic life across the Atlantic. Would she be willing to go back to Remnant if given the chance? To go through even more trouble than what she had been through for the slightest chance to return home? Or was she as divided as he was?

Jaune shelved those musings. Better to find out what the British spy agency was asking of him.

"What do you want me to do," he choked out.

"We want you to investigate these mercenaries. Unveil them. And if they can be tapped for humanitarian potential. Establishing a means to connect to Remnant is secondary for the time-being."

"So...you want us to stay? And help with 'humanitarian' efforts?" the blonde sergeant worded. "Even if we, hypothetically, could leave this world and never come back?"

"If by some higher power, they are returned to their, say, places of birth, then it is out of our hands. I request that if they do offer a means to return to Remnant, I would like you to consider all that you will be leaving behind."

Jaune would have jumped at that opportunity. Alas, as much as there was pain and suffering in on Earth, so did exist an equal amount of the comfort and healing. His last memory of Remnant was the bloody Fall of Beacon and at the time, it was like the end of the world. What would have happened in the couple years since then? Did time go by in his absence or would he be sent back to the day after that goddamn tragedy? Or maybe things were looking up and Remnant was recovering. Who could possibly know at this point?

On the other hand, he would be abandoning his men. Baz, Avi, Gosse, his squad, his platoon. Causson and the locals he had met along the way. He had made an imprint in their lives and his sudden disappearance would have an impact beyond his control. He could care less about his legacy—'Forked Lightning' can go the grave. It was the lives of those he touched that he worried about. He had entrenched himself into Earth over the past two years and it would be like recklessly uprooting a vineyard that already had vegetation growing off of it.

It was a hard bargain.

Hillard finished his tea before telling him, "The SSB has already moved to have you registered as an operative."

"What?"

"You work for us now," Vastel intoned. "You are still a French soldier until you will be called upon for service elsewhere. In that event, your squad will have a capable replacement to lead them."

Jaune sighed and shook his head. "Anything lesser isn't good enough. My men need a proper leader who would understand them and value them above cannon fodder."

"General Ironside will see to that," the SSB major concluded. "The transition will be slow. For now, you may resume your duties as sergeant."

"What about Weiss? She's expecting me. She can't be waiting forever." Hell, they most likely were proofreading his letters on the courier ships so why hide anything else? Jaune let his head drop into his hands. "I was planning to migrate to the United States at the end of my deployment. Weiss was...preparing lodging for me in North Dakota...in time for my discharge."

"Thinking ahead, _hein_ ," Vastel remarked. "What made you confident of a discharge?"

Because Causson was working on it and General Ironside was a softie who was being buttered up to include him on the list of troops to be rotated _out_ of Archangel; his whole squad was in line to be sent home before winter because goodness knows Baz would make a better children's book author than a soldier. "A guy can dream. Is Causson in on this, too?"

"No."

That was a relief. "I think I'll have to let Weiss know. I don't want her to worry."

The two espionage officers shared a look before the major admitted, "I suppose there's no harm in saying this. Miss Schnee has long been considered a likely candidate for similar operations."

The blonde sergeant bolted upright in his seat. "What!? No. No! Leave her out of this! She's been through enough. Just let me...let me do this then. I'll go to China and find these mercenaries for you."

"Well said. However, I do encourage you inform her of this development as soon as possible. It would simplify matters, make our jobs easier." Hillard stood and offered his hand. "Welcome to the SSB, Jaune."

Sergeant Arkos swatted it away. "I need some air."

Vastel unlocked the door. "Nothing of what has been discussed here leaves this room. _Est-ce que c'est clair_?"

An apathetic salute. " _Tr_ _è_ _s clair_ , _Lieutenant_."

* * *

His sulking was obvious to his squad. Even after the jokes and the banter, it was clear they were casting him worried glances. Then after dinner, Baz asked him what was wrong to which Jaune shrugged with with a somber nod and a droopy smile.

Come sunset he retired to his corner at the end of his squad's bivouac, far from the most of his platoon, moping under the flickering oil lamp hanging off a hook hammered into the post holding up their tent. No one bothered to converse with him; his silence was enough of a message. Later in the evening, feeling assured that his squad had all fallen asleep, he left for a stroll.

"A little late to be prowling around, _hein_ , Jaune?"

The blonde sergeant saluted Causson who had crossed the street with his own lantern. "Sir."

"Something on your mind?"

He was coerced into being a spy for the British by Hillard and would soon be sent to China to the track down Huntsmen several levels above him. "A lot."

"Do you wish to speak of it?"

He wanted to. But he could not risk Causson. The man was too kind to be brought into something he had no knowledge of and could rightly jeopardize his safety. There was only so much the captain could do with his commission. "It's... I'm sorry."

"Have you done something?"

Jaune might soon be. He straightened himself and shook his hand. "Thank you, sir. For your support and kindness. I'll never forget it."

"You are welcome, Jaune," Causson answered with a tinge of confusion. "It is the duty of an officer to care for those under him."

"And it is the obligation of a soldier to let his superior know how much he is appreciated for his efforts. Goodnight, sir." Sergeant Arkos gave him his stiffest salute, turned sharply on his heels, and returned to his bivouac.

The oil was still burning, casting dim light over the sleeping forms of his men, _his_ team. He was going to miss them. A minute later, Jaune pulled out his pen and, after a long contemplative moment, began writing.

 _Dear Weiss,_

 _I'm sorry. I might not be coming home soon. I might not be coming home at all. I hope you understand..._

* * *

 _June 3, 1919_

* * *

"And that is the end of the match," Weiss called, stepping between grand duchesses Olga and Tatiana, both in padded gear and lowering their foils. "Considerable improvement, you two."

From the gazebo, Maria, Aleksei, and Anastasia applauded their duel, the older girls' fencing gear set aside for later use.

"There were fewer mistakes this time. Nothing you two cannot rectify," the white-haired girl began, expressing her points in much the same way Miss Goodwitch would have albeit without a riding crop and with a pen and paper instead of a tablet. In fact, she modeled the Romanovs' fencing lessons after combat class. Unfortunately, Tsaritsa Alexandra remained adamant in keeping the adolescent tsesarevich away from harm courtesy of his damnable illness although Weiss discerned his developing tactical mind.

As the three rejoined the rest at the gazebo, they were approached by Mister Trupp who held up a platter with a note on it.

"Pardon for the intrusion, your highnesses. A telegram for Lady Schnee."

Weiss raised her brow and took the slip from the platter. "Who is it from?"

"The British Embassy."

Confusion quickly gave way to a myriad of emotions ranging between shock and anger with the white-haired girl coming close to ripping the paper to shreds.

"Isha. What is it?" Anya asked.

The former heiress was stiff, the paper wrinkling in her tightening grip. "... Nothing to concern yourselves with." She inhaled only to come out with a shaky breath. "If you'll excuse me..."

She hastily marched back into the manor, past confused servants, and shut herself in her room where she once again read through the telegram. This had to be a hoax. She read it again. This could not be true! She kept rereading the notice until she could hear the sender's voice speaking the words in her head.

 _Sgt Arkos transferred for extended service STOP He will serve greater purpose STOP His letter should explain everything STOP We can discuss this separately through letter or telegram STOP Best regards=_

 _Major Wilfred Hillard_

Her hands trembled. Jaune was supposed to be coming home soon. He said the Allied commanders were working to have his squad released. Troops were already being evacuated from Arkhangelsk! She was already planning his reintegration into society!

"Why..."

Frustration gave way to grief. After a long while, Anya's voice and incessant knocking prompted her to unlock her door.

"Isha! What's wrong? What is—"

Weiss threw her arms around the grand duchess and cried.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 13, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 17, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 10, 2018**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Repos**_ **,** _ **Sergent**_ **.** **= At ease, Sergeant.**

 _ **Et toi**_ **, _Lieutenant_? _T'es_ _un espion aussi_ , _hein_? = What about you, Lieutenant? Are you a spy too, huh?**

 ** _Est-ce que c'est clair_? = Is that clear?**

 ** _Tr_ _è_ _s clair_ , _Lieutenant_. = Very clear, Lieutenant.**


	28. June 22-24, 1919

**NOTE: This was supposed to be one long chapter but I halved it.**

* * *

 _June 22, 1919_

* * *

Weiss went up to her room to read the newest telegram from the British Embassy.

 _Everything is set STOP Thank you for your initiative STOP We will be expecting you STOP Godspeed=_

 _Major Wilfred Hillard_

She turned around to see an anxious Anastasia standing in the doorway to her room with a curious Alexei in tow. The look she gave them was enough. The grand duchess wrapped her in a teary embrace. The two quickly included the tsesarevich until he squeezed out, "You need to tell everyone now."

Weiss nodded somberly. Anya detached herself, a sad smile etched across her face, and silently left her room. She returned later with the bulging nightgown neatly folded in her arms, the remaining gemstones untouched since being sewn into the fabric back in Yekaterinburg last year.

"You are going to need this," the grand duchess offered.

The former heiress agreed. And not because she would be sleeping in it.

* * *

 _June 23, 1919_

* * *

The library of their North Dakota manor had never felt so constricting. Nevertheless, Weiss held steadfast, remaining visibly adamant after explaining her decision. She was ready to argue and had already packed her bags in her upstairs room. She remained in silence waiting for the fiery reaction. Instead, she heard a long sigh.

Tsar Nicholas the Second remained seated in silent contemplation. He had straightened on his chair and had his elbows planted firmly on the desk next to the book he had been reading before she entered. The only sounds that followed the next minute was the ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the bookshelves. It felt eerily reminiscent of what she had grown up with in Atlas.

"Are you sure about this?" he finally asked.

"I've made up my mind, Nikolay Alexandrovich," the white-haired girl replied resolutely. "Knowing Jaune, he would rather live up to his ridiculous notion of chivalry even after he had been given ten chances to decline. If he can never return home, then I'm bringing home to him."

"That is brave and noble of you. However, I am finding it difficult to comprehend the wisdom behind this."

"I'm willing to be painted a fool." Besides, she had been called worse. It was part of being a Schnee.

"How do you plan on traveling there?"

"I tapped Charles at the post office," she replied matter-of-factly.

The tsar raised his brow and gestured at her to continue.

Weiss sighed. "I had Charles bring me up to his employers. I negotiated with the postal service to grant me a workable passage back to Arkhangelsk."

"And they agreed?" he asked incredulously. "The United States Postal Service agreed to send you to Arkhangelsk? With their resources?"

It was a Schnee skill: taking advantage of available networks to achieve the end goal. She could claim that she was a master at it in comparison to her peers having had countless times back at Beacon to get Ruby, Yang, Blake, and sometimes even Nora out of trouble.

Besides, Charles and the German migrant community were not her only big help in enabling her departure. She had coordinated with Hillard via telegram for the overseas leg of her journey...after she had given him a piece of her mind, of course. And she was rarely vulgar.

"Nikolay Alexandrovich, I am a Schnee," Weiss answered pridefully. "We Schnees are adept at negotiation."

"Thank you for reminding me. How long have you been considering this?"

"A week now." A long contemplative week after days of cycling through the stages of grief. Hillard's first telegram was a stab through the gut. Jaune's subsequent letter twisted the blade. He had no choice. This Secret Service Bureau muscled him into this madcap assignment that would probably end with him disappearing without a trace. She could not have that. He was her dear friend and she would rather they go together than be left on her own again. "I've already said my peace."

"To me. Have you talked to Anya? To Alix? To Alyosha?"

"I have." It had been an intense conversation with Anya nearly bawling in front her sisters and Alexandra Fedorovna giving her the fiercest glare she had ever seen from that woman. In the end, they all deferred to the patriarch of the family. "And now I'm informing you. I am not asking for permission."

Tsar Nicholas nodded silently, his eyes dropping to the marble floor. "... And when you find him? When he has done his task? What are your plans after that?"

"We will go home. Enough with war, enough with this nonsense."

"What if you somehow manage to find a means to return to Remnant as has been proposed?"

Weiss managed an answer. "Then so be it."

"I see." His expression softened and he sunk back into his chair. "You are both selfish and selfless. That is remarkable."

"I care for Jaune. He means so much to me."

"Do you love him?"

The former heiress was startled. Her mouth felt suddenly dry and she found her ironclad gaze cracking. She was doing this out of concern! For the well-being of her... _friend_. Jaune was doing this to see if it was possible to return to Remnant even if it meant leaving everything—everyone, including the Romanovs—behind. Part of her wanted closure and she would be lying if she said she claimed she never yearned to leave Earth for their world.

"I..."

Tsar Nicholas shook his head. "You do not have to answer to me. It is best if you answer your own questions before you make these decisions."

Weiss nodded shakily. "I...he...he is very dear to me."

They were silent for what seemed to have been the longest minute. Then he stood and embraced her. "Go with God's blessing, Isha. May He keep you safe in your journey home."

She hugged back. "Thank you, Nikolay Alexandrovich."

* * *

Jaune was sheepish when Causson lividly confronted him after Hillard filled him in on this whole SSB business. At least Vastel was there to placate their superior's wrath.

That swiftly led to initiating morning physical exercises with his platoon to help with his own preparations for China. The blonde sergeant could forgive the grumbling—it was like basic training all over again. Mostly consisting of jogging around the streets before roll call followed by the Daily Dozen, a new training regimen the lieutenant had adopted from the Americans. Not to mention none of them had very comfortably acclimatized to the Russian cold.

This had gone on for the first week before they received orders to support the Americans and the British at the front lines. That entailed sailing down the Northern Dvina on those steel-clad river monitors. On the bright side, his motion sickness was becoming less of a problem now.

"How are your sword-fighting skills?" Vastel asked him during their trip downstream.

"I hope it wouldn't have to come to that," Jaune replied, soaking in the natural view.

"You may never know. Your bayonet can only do so much."

"What would you have me do? Club someone to death with my gun? Because I've tried that and guns can break if you hit hard enough." The blonde sergeant regarded the taller lieutenant. "Can _you_ fight with a sword?"

Vastel shrugged and tapped his holstered pistol. "I did not have to."

"Exactly. I'd better avoid the confrontation. If I can shoot, I will."

"And what about your Aura?"

The blonde sergeant hardened his expression. "Emergencies only."

"We can get you a tutor. Maybe one of the Cossacks here can show you a few tricks."

"I'd rather not get stabbed by an angry Russian."

"No need to worry about that," Hillard remarked, emerging from the bridge to join them on the deck. "You may need to maintain a cover for your men to avoid growing suspicion. Would not want them to think you're an informant with you sneaking out every night."

Jaune sighed. Great. Was this going to be like his nightly training sessions with Pyrrha? "I hate having to do this to the guys. Lying to them..."

"Necessary sins to preserve the next saints, I'd say," Vastel chimed.

"You are not the best at hand-to-hand engagements, are you, sergeant," the SSB major noted.

"Never was the best at it." It had been a long time, after all. Crocea Mors was the last sword he ever held. On the other hand, on the Western Front, he found that his entrenching tool was more useful as a bludgeon than a shovel. How...insightful...that his prized family heirloom with its mechanical triggers was used to cut through Grimm with ease while a simple handheld digging apparatus mass produced in a factory somewhere in Paris was very effective at cracking open human skulls.

"You have been in the trenches. You should know how many inconvenient baubles could become your next weapon."

There were a lot. He tried everything from the issued bayonets and borrowed knives to the makeshift clubs wrapped in barbed-wire. He could even recall beating down a German infantryman with a rock before the rock slipped out of his grasp and he ended up using his fists. Jaune blinked the memories away and answered the lieutenant. "I know how to swing a stick and where to swing it. That's it. Not really good with all that riposting and stuff."

"That will be addressed soon enough."

"Oh? You'll train me?" Jaune was a little amused. Maybe this could be his chance to land a few solid hits on Hillard without losing his hide; the bastard sure deserved it. "I think I can throw a good right hook." Infused with Aura, it would seriously hurt.

"Not today," the SSB major countered unamused.

"Huh. I can't wait," the blonde sergeant sarcastically replied.

"Thibald and I will not be your instructor in that regard, either." Hillard walked to the railing, seemingly enjoying the sight of a battered Red Army gunboat run aground and being dissected by locals.

"Who's going to train me then?"

"You'll find out when they get here."

Jaune sighed. "Of course..." No one had ever told him that being a low-ranking agent meant being put on a need-to-know basis. Mayhap it was it for the best; espionage was a deadly serious business. That left him planted on the railing, staring at the passing landscape and comparing the scenery with the ones on the North Dakota postcards Weiss sent him.

* * *

 _June 24, 1919_

* * *

Weiss stopped short of the open door to the cab. Her luggage was neatly tucked in the back and most of her remaining belongings—all the things she would be leaving and could very well do without in the long run—were accounted for. Jaune's letters though were kept under heavy lock and key in a safe in the basement complete with an oath from Anya and Lyoshka that they would never pry it open to read any more of it.

She turned around to face the exiled Russian imperial family stood on the portico steps flanked by Mister Kharitonov, Doctor Botkin, Miss Demidova, and the rest of their American servant staff. Mister Trupp held the door open, waiting to chauffeur her to the bus station where she could then take a trip to New York and board a specific courier ship convoying mail and supplies directly to the American expeditionary forces in Arkhangelsk, the vessel having been delayed by the British Embassy to await 'additional cargo.'

"Thank you, everyone," Weiss bade after a round of emotional hugs. "Thank you, all of you, for your love and support. I'll never forget all that you've done for me."

"God bless you," they each answered in their own way. Among the Romanov siblings, Anya and Lyoshka struggled the most to wipe their flowing tears.

"Take care, Isha!" the youngest grand duchess threw in as the former heiress stepped in the car, granting one final nod to Tsar Nicholas who back approvingly.

Weiss kept waving until the estate disappeared behind the lush wooded North Dakota countryside. Releasing the breath she had been holding, she leaned back into the seat and said, "Mister Trupp, thank you for doing this for me."

"You are very much welcome, _freylina_. It has been an honor serving you."

"I hope to see you all again soon when this is over." That she was definitely sure of.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 9, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 17, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 17, 2018**

 **NOTE: Second half of this one will be up shortly.**


	29. July, 1919

_July 12, 1919_

* * *

Arkhangelsk had changed significantly over the past year. Even before the vessel approached the pier, Weiss could feel the uncertainty hanging over the city. It was a little suffocating.

A half hour later, she was walking down the gangway with one of the sailors carrying her luggage. Setting foot back on Russian soil was minutely nauseating and Weiss had to pause to suppress the creeping vertigo. She never thought she would be coming back here and now that she had, the control she exercised during her transatlantic trip cracked.

"Welcome back, Lady Schnee," greeted a beaming Major Hillard.

Weiss was silent for the first three seconds. Then her hand came up fast and his head snapped violently to the side. Impressively, the Englishman did not stagger much; he recovered quickly, straightening himself, and rubbing the burning red mark on his cheek. That smug smile returned almost immediately.

"Ah, hah, I should have expected that."

"Good to see you again, major," the former heiress sneered. "I wouldn't have had to do this if it weren't for your hawkishness."

"Necessary measures."

"You know Jaune's weakness is his damn code of honor."

"You should be aware that Sergeant Arkos ceased to uphold his code until you appeared riding into our arms," he countered.

Weiss gawked at him. "Are you saying that _I_ am the reason he 'accepted' your offer? You're blaming this on me?"

The man appeared nonplussed by her agitation. "I am not placing blame on anyone. I am merely stating that Jaune would not have developed his altruism had you not acted to save the czar's family which in turn brought you to us."

She fumed silently. Because he was right. Jaune had been so defeated when they reunited. The hope that had been restored because of her was later used to maneuver him into this mess.

"As soon as this is over, I expect a discharge," Weiss demanded.

"That is not up to me," Hillard deflected as he walked her to back to the inn that she, last year, believed she would never see again.

* * *

 _July 14, 1919_

* * *

Jaune was genuinely satisfied now that he had survived another journey up the Northern Dvina without having to hold in his breakfast. He still had those butterflies but his motion sickness had become nothing more than a nuisance than an actual handicap. He made a mental note to thank Vastel for putting their platoon on river patrol duty. Less chances of engaging anyone and lots of idle time, most of which was spent sitting on the deck.

He did not want to say it was boring for irrational fear of jinxing their luck. But it was safe. And it helped him.

This time, they disembarked in Archangel instead of Kolmogory which had been the branching point of their patrols. Probably another rotation and another month spent in the port city. Better than being back out in the field.

Jaune walked with his squadron towards the city proper to unwind. When he got there, Vastel pulled him aside and said, "Your instructor is here. This way."

About time. The blonde sergeant followed him to the inn, expecting to be grilled by some old fart from the Boer War or some earlier conflict that involved a lot of sword-fighting and hand-to-hand combat.

* * *

Jaune was thunderstruck. Weiss Schnee was here. In the flesh. No one spiked his canteen. What the hell was she doing back here!? And was that a sword sheathed under her coat? His mouth hung agape after he repeated her name three times, half wondering if there was something in the water he had been drinking earlier.

White hair. Faded scar. Sharp prudish scowl. And an angelic voice that dripped with venom. "I am not going to let you get yourself killed out."

He stammered. "I, uh, I'm not, ah, it's complicated...?"

Weiss continued to glare into him to the point that he was leaning back from how intensely she was burning through into his soul. He was both glad and alarmed that she was here again in Russia though both emotions were blanketed by the dreadful notion that she was going to tear him a new anus with that sword she was carrying.

"Uh, S-snow Angel?"

The white-haired girl closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her hand brushed aside her coat to to reveal a thick wool winter dress stretching down to high-heeled leather boots before coming to rest over the sheath of her blade, a cavalry saber by the looks of it. She tilted her chin up at him, completing that condescending posture from their Beacon days.

Then she said, "Do you expect to do your job with only your rifle?"

Jaune blinked. "What?"

"Jaune. I didn't sail all the way back here to tell you you're an idiot."

"... I have my bayonet." What was going on right now?

Weiss sighed unimpressed. "We start our training tomorrow."

The blonde sergeant went bug-eyed. "Wait, what?"

"Lady Schnee will assist you in mastering melee engagements," Hillard interjected cheekily. "I know you refused to let her be involved in our clandestine operation but I simply could not argue with her. She insisted."

"Jaune," Weiss added, grabbing his hand while his face mimicked a fish hauled out of the water. "I've made up my mind. I'm not going to be separated from you any longer. From now on, we are sticking together wherever, whenever."

Whatever words Jaune was going to say died in his throat when she cupped his hand in both of hers and pressed her face into his chest.

"I want to see these people, too."

"... You want to return to Remnant?"

"We will cross that bridge when we get there," she said, extricating herself. "You can go back to your squadron now. I will see you here tomorrow for the start of your lessons. I will not hold back. Much."

Jaune was too stunned to move and remained as a stammering statue in the middle of Weiss's hotel room. Eventually, Hillard bade farewell and, together with Vastel, escorted him back outside to their platoon with assurances that he would be issued his own sword soon.

* * *

 _July 20, 1919_

* * *

Jaune often cared less about gossip, offering an ear only when it was going to affect their job. His Forked Lightning persona, a product of hearsay, began as a nuisance and an eventual psychological tool for both sides of the firefight. And he would rather the monicker finally die when he was discharged. Most everything else was harmless...

...up until he overheard Private Sabenoux and Corporal Tubrin talking about his 'steamy nightly liaisons with that petite American tourist.'

He cleared his throat causing the two to stiffen and salute him. " _Alors de quoi parliez-vous_?"

They stammered and sweated until they withered under his glare and spilled the beans on the latest gossip of the garrison. Son of a bitch, this was much worse than Snow White and the Yellow Huntsman! And Baz had already written a complete manuscript of that crap. It was too well-written that he couldn't bring himself to burn it when he found it.

Jaune had to admit that all this hearsay was the inevitable consequence of slipping away after dusk to train with Weiss at a secluded glen outside the port city. Hillard and Vastel flexed enough of their spy muscle to keep them out of sight and sound from most everyone. Most, being the key word here. One could never prevent the intrusion of some wandering civilian or a sentry on his pee break (Weiss nearly cut off the poor guy's pecker).

It did not help that the stories had evolved so rapidly that there were unnecessary details. No, he was _not_ having an affair with anyone, at all. No, she was _not_ his mistress. No, they were not _that_ loud and in _not_ that kind of way either!

Damn. Was this what team CRDL had to sit through every night when he was training with Pyrrha on the roof atop their dorm back at Beacon?

" _Ne crois pas tout ce que vous entends_ ," Jaune admonished before dismissing his subordinates.

" _Oui_ , _sergent_!" they barked back nervously before escaping into the crowd.

The blonde sergeant placed his sheathed sword on top of the crate and eased onto his cot to stretch his limbs. Not a moment after he laid his head down, Vastel entered and handed him a pad of notes.

"Practice on your Mandarin, _sergent_. Lady Schnee has been studying it vigorously. She has mentioned having incorporated it into your regimen."

Oh yes, she very much did. She was barking at him in Chinese last night. "Will do, sir."

"And please do not pander to the gossipmongers. It is effort enough to keep your training discreet."

The rumor mill was out of control; what can you do? "Understood."

* * *

 _July 25, 1919_

* * *

Jaune planted his cutlass into the dirt then slumped onto the ground with his back against a tree. Weiss came up to him, her sentimental Cossack cavalry saber resting in her grip. Her shoulders sagged a little—she was tired, too—albeit the rest of her body remained upright as befitting of a lady of nobility. Classic Weiss. Then again, she never really confirmed nor denied ever being officially granted such a status.

"You're improving," she said, stooping down to pick up her lantern.

Training in the dark was not the best option. It was hard to rely on candlelight but it did give him in an edge in case they had to engage in an area with dim lighting. But it was their best shot at keeping clandestine about this whole shebang. "Thanks."

"How's your Mandarin?"

Terrible. "Working on it."

"The Far East is home to more than just the Chinese. There are Mongolians, Japanese, Buryats, and Koreans," Weiss lectured.

"You don't expect me to learn four more, do you? Besides, you're not my handler."

"I'm still your friend, Jaune," she snapped lightly, surprising him. "I want you to survive. I want you to be able to negotiate your way out of precarious situations when fighting your way out becomes too risky."

"Yeah, I know." She made that clear several times since she got here. "... Weiss, I know we talked about this already but...I can't...it's hard for me to comprehend you...coming along with me on this. Did the SSB register you, too?"

"Yes."

Jaune tilted his head in confusion. "Wait. You were actually registered? As my trainer, right?"

"Trainer and accomplice," she clarified. "I'm coming with you."

His surprise overcame his fatigue. He suddenly stood up despite the aching in his joints from their late night spar. "What?"

"I am coming with you to the Far East as a fellow agent." She shushed him before he could protest. "Do not argue with me on this."

He still tried to argue with her. "Goddamn it, Weiss! You don't—"

"Jaune, I don't want you to become a statistic," she nearly flared. Her knuckles paled over the hilt of her saber. "You may not have had a choice in the matter but _I_ do. I have had it with your commanders moving you around and throwing you into dangerous situations. I have _had it_ with your officers gambling with your survival!"

His mouth hung agape, jaw moving to try and form words while she continued, the words heavily punctuated.

"I am sick and tired of waiting for the day when you'd be let go from the fighting." She shakily sheathed her sword, the flickering light from their lanterns showing the her cracking emotions and the conflict on his face. "I love Anya and Lyoshka. I love the family I'm with. But you, Jaune... I... You are my friend, the only friend I have who could relate to me no one else on Earth could. You... I..."

He gulped before softly saying, "There could be others out there."

"I know that. And I want to see them too. Anything to remind us of our real home, where we came from."

"Even if our real home could be a shit hole by now? Even if there _is_ no way to get back to our real home?"

"I don't care," she sighed, head bowed. She kept both her hands wrapped on the handle of her lantern, avoiding the temptation to reach out and snake her fingers around his palm. "I'm not letting you get mauled by Huntsmen greater than your level of skill."

Jaune nodded dejectedly. "Fair enough." He looked at the blisters on his hand. It had been a long time since he had engaged this much with a sword. "There is something though..."

"What is it?"

The blonde sergeant faced the tree behind him and pressed his fingers against the bark. He channeled his Aura into the touch until his whole hand was shimmering. "Step back, Weiss."

Wordlessly, she did.

And with bated breath, Jaune pulled back, concentrating a controlled amount of energy into his balling fist. They said he was 'glowing' on the battlefield. He remembered those intense moments where he made contact with the enemy. Countless soldiers sent flying back with raging hooks. That was in the heat of the moment, when his will to survive overcame rational thought, when his behavior in the field had become so animalistic that his Aura materializing came natural. Tonight, with some mastery of his Semblance, perhaps he could learn to manipulate what he had and exert more control in the next fight.

"Jaune, what are you—"

Weiss was left dumbstruck and slightly reeling when Jaune's knuckles smashed into the tree with enough force to reduce a section of the trunk to splinters. The two stepped back as it creaked and finally collapsed. In the distance, the sentries were roused from their slumber and nervously scrambling towards the source of the noise.

"Well...that's one way to keep the patrols awake," he remarked, circling his wrist and rubbing off flakes of bark that had lodged into his skin. His Aura did its job. 'Forked Lightning' indeed.

"I'm impressed." Weiss picked up her lantern, dusted herself off, and slipped her saber back into her belt. "We're done here. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, you too." He could have let her walk back to her inn by herself—they weren't that far off from the town proper. But his legs had a mind of their own and he wound up catching up with her and escorting her back to her inn while several sentries rushed past them to the glen, no doubt on edge after hearing what sounded like an explosion. Come morning, he was sure, Vastel would chew him out for this but he could care less.

The more important thought remained: Weiss was now part of the mission. She would be in harm's way as much as him. And that gave Jaune more reason to despise Hillard and the SSB more than he despised the circumstances that led them to this point.

* * *

 _July 27, 1919_

* * *

Jaune already had an idea of what was going on when he walked into the cabin of the same British ship where he received his briefing and saw Weiss sitting in the corner across from Hillard and Vastel.

"Lady Schnee will be accompanying you to the Far East for your assignment," the SSB major announced in the soundproofed room. "She insisted."

Yeah. She sure did. "Okay."

"You were expecting this, I take it," Vastel remarked. "You will be given designations to be used in the field in lieu of your names."

Right. It was common sense in the spy world to have an alias—first lesson about espionage that he learned from all the spy movies he grew up watching. Given the bleak reality of the world they were in, it would keep them from losing their hides. "Alright. Who am I supposed to be, sir?"

"Your team, _our_ team, is call sign Erzengel. German for archangel in case you are wondering."

Jaune and Weiss both raised their brows at them, each expressing 'really?' and 'not much creativity on your part.'

"Sergeant Arkos, you are Jäger. Lady Schnee, you are Fürstin."

"Why German?" Weiss asked.

"This is so the blame would fall on the Germans if the mission is compromised," the lieutenant answered matter-of-factly.

"When are we getting sent out?" Jaune asked. "I like to have a date that we can prepare for."

"We are hinging on a favorable period when the risks would be at its fewest," Hillard replied. "We have yet to receive a guarantee of safe passage from the Czechoslovaks. You would not want to walk all the way there now, would you?"

"We're taking the train, sir?" It was a copper-tasting irony that they were banking on the men they were supposed to rescue for their personal safety from the Bolsheviks.

"Much faster than a voyage around two continents and that is with passage rights through Gibraltar and the Suez."

"We are taking the train to China," the blonde sergeant repeated. Jaune had seen the maps and borrowed a globe from one of the doctors at the hospital to familiarize himself with the geography. Come to think of it, it was actually more practical to take the train. At least he had tamed his motion sickness. Unlike bullheads and ships, trains were fixed on miles of track that were nailed into the ground so less motion to screw with his stomach. "And what then when we get there? Do we just wing it?"

Vastel regarded him for a moment then said, "We are coordinating with one of our agents there. His last report indicated recent activity by the Mongolian."

Jaune heard Weiss ask, "You mean the Demon?" At least they briefed her.

"Yes. Around the areas between Urga and Haerbin. The Mongolian has regularly participated in several skirmishes, often switching sides."

"Unpredictable," Weiss commented. Rogue Huntsmen tended to be unpredictable, mainly to avoid being shackled by the factions that hired them, and she remembered quite a few she knew personally who would fit that category. Then again, none of them could be certain with what little credible information they had. "Whose side this time?"

"The Chinese, most likely," the lieutenant replied dryly. "There is a very real possibility that they would be conducting an invasion soon. Maybe sooner than we think if the Mongolian is involved."

"Remember your monickers," Hillard reminded. "It will make this task easier."

Sergeant Ionas 'Jäger' Arkos and Lady Weiss 'Fürstin' Schnee shared thoughtful looks. This felt a tad bit familiar. Being assembled into a working team with a matching monicker based off of their own individual names. After a while, the two nodded in agreement at their handler. From then on, SSB Unit Erzengel was now Earth's first (and only) Huntsman team.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 9, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 20, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 20, 2018**

 **NOTE: Things are going to get real next chapter.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Alors de quoi parliez-vous_? = So what were you talking about?**

 ** _Ne crois pas tout ce que vous entends_. = Do not believe everything you hear.**


	30. August 20, 21, 1919

_August 20, 1919_

* * *

Sergeant Ionas Arkos had already given his goodbyes the day before. Standing in front of his men who had lined up with their new sergeant, he felt as though a tether was being stretched to its breaking point. He gave his final inspection, drawing it out for as long as he could, then issued his charge to his replacement and walked away from the Archangel parade grounds for what could very well be the last time.

Along the way, the tether snapped and he dipped into an alley to wipe away some of the tears that were running down his cheeks. He could only hope and pray that the guys would be in good hands. He stayed there for a moment before resuming his stroll back to the inn. It was already dusk and there were the final preparations to be made. The Czechoslovaks had come through.

SSB Unit Erzengel would be leaving tonight for the Far East.

* * *

Jaune felt like a commissioned officer with the way he was being fitted by Weiss. She tightened the straps on his harness which held his two pouches worth of ammunition for his rifle—which he hoped was not as defective as most of the Mosins that were issued them—and two additional satchels by his belt. His backpack weighed heavier having been loaded with an alpine kit, camping gear, and extra rations.

Weiss, for her part, proved that she was capable of hefting her own share. Her pack mostly included extra clothes, ammunition, and two loaded purses. She even insisted on bringing along a folded bulging satin nightgown lined with stitches. Her scabbarded Cossack cavalry saber was sheathed underneath her overcoat just enough to remain hidden but with enough space to draw when the situation demanded.

"There," she announced, stepping back.

The blonde sergeant juggled with his gear then walked around. Less burden on his shoulders and a bit more maneuverability. "Do I look like your typical Bolshie grunt?"

Weiss pursed her lips as she studied him with squinted eyes. "You're passable."

Jaune adjusted the flappy fur hat taken from one of the hundreds of Red Army troops captured by the interventionists. "What about you? You good?"

The former heiress showed no hassle in getting up encumbered. Her white hair was tucked neatly underneath a dark flowing wig and her scar was invisible under layers of fine cosmetics. "I'm ready."

This was it. A month of training and preparation boiled down to this hour before midnight. The two departed Weiss's hotel room for the last time to meet with Causson and Hillard who had been patiently waiting in the foyer down below. A waiting taxi hummed outside. Jaune gave one last salute to his superior before opening the door to let Weiss in.

" _Dieu vous b_ _é_ _nisse_ , Jaune, Weiss," Causson added, returning with a salute of his own.

Sergeant Ionas Arkos, call sign Jäger, dipped his head as he squeezed inside beside Lady Weiss Schnee, call sign Fürstin. " _Au revoir_ , _Capitaine_."

Hillard nodded at Causson then took up his spot as the team's chauffeur, pulling away from the inn, out of the safe confines of Archangel then down the rough and muddy roads leading southwards to Obozerskaya village, where their train was waiting.

"I feel nervous," Weiss admitted during the ride.

"Hey. So am I," conceded Jaune.

"How do you think I feel?" butted Lieutenant Thibald Vastel, call sign Wächter, who had been sitting on the front passenger's seat. "Please do not make our jobs any more difficult than it already is."

"I can't guarantee that, sir," Jäger replied. "We'll try, though."

"If it is true that there is more of you," the SSB major remarked, "then I hope you can convince them to behave. Remember: you are to gather information, confirm the information, and act accordingly."

"Follow my orders, you two," the lieutenant added sternly. "Unless the situation demands it."

"Acknowledged. Do you think these mercenaries would be receptive to a unified effort towards similar goals?" Fürstin posited.

Jaune exhaled to calm his nerves, tracing the few city lights of Archangel disappear from the glass of the car window. "Only one way to find out."

* * *

 _August 21, 1919_

* * *

SSB Unit Erzengel gathered up their belongings from the back of the vehicle and crossed the street to board the train steaming on the tracks of the Obozerskaya railway section.

"Godspeed Erzengel," Hillard bade with a nod.

"See you on the flip side," Jaune threw back before their handler peeled back into the dark, back towards the port city.

As the three settled into their culvert in the boxcar, among the few passengers for this early morning trip, Jaune withdrew the pamphlet showcasing their route. There was only one destination and it was the central industrial hub of the whole country: Moscow.

The trip was tense, taking them deep into the heart of the Bolshevik movement. Come dawn, they had arrived in the city. While itself beautiful and orderly, the atmosphere permeating the capital where Lenin and his entourage led their 'glorious' proletariat version of Russia was suffocatingly dry. Jaune felt his heart skip a beat when they had to pass through the inspectors. He had become paranoid enough to resist glancing at his fellow agents.

He heard Vastel conversing with them. Then, unlike the other disembarking passengers, their luggage was given a pass and they slipped through the platoons of Red Army troops waiting to snag any spies coming from the 'imperialist-held north.'

So far, so good. Scrutinizing gaze from the man in the booth. Quick flip of the booklet that was his papers. Then the stamp. And a dull grunt. Clear.

Jaune breathed easy as Weiss followed up together with Vastel. Again, they conversed in Russian though the look on her face was telltale. She whispered into his ear, "Our next train is in another station across the city. We are walking."

Well, shit. Better work the disguise. He hoped that three people hefting large heavy bags would be a common sight. For the next half hour, their 'casual stroll' took them across the vast plaza that stretched before the crimson walls of the Moscow Kremlin.

He felt Weiss slip her arm around his and press closer to him. His throat dried up quick from carrying the false image that this girl with him was his fiancé or something, in full view of scores of Red Army soldiers and pro-Bolshevik civilians. The experience was absolutely nerve-wracking. Because just beyond those walls was Vladimir Lenin, leading figure of the other side of this civil war, rumored to have ordered the execution of the Romanovs, an attempt that Weiss thwarted.

Said lady was herself stiff with fear. She gripped tight onto his arm as they walked by with pounds of incriminating evidence that would condemn them in a Bolshevik court. If they were caught.

The two silently communicated. The thought crossed their minds: they were probably the only Western agents around this close to the seat of their enemy's power. They were trained Huntsmen with Aura protecting them and Semblances to boost their fighting capabilities. One was an experienced combatant from the Great War while the other could summon a loyal moving construct of ice. They could pound through the Red Army detachments guarding the place, battle their way through the Kremlin's halls, find Lenin...kill him...and end the civil war. Then return home and settle down...

Alas, Vastel's domineering glare over his shoulder reminded them that they had a different mission. Jaune and Weiss sighed. It was a stupid, unrealistic, suicidal plan borne out of wishful thinking on their part.

" _Dobroye utro_ , _tovarischi_ ," the lieutenant suddenly greeted.

Jäger and Fürstin froze. Before them, Wächter walked past a stout mounted dragoon eyeing them wearily. The two younger agents gulped and followed carefully.

" _Dobroye utro_ , _tovarisch komandir_ ," Weiss repeated with a fake smile.

Jaune simply nodded with a soft grunt.

" _Ya nye komandir_ , _gospozha_ ," the man replied hoarsely, his intimidating scowl never once creasing. " _Podozhdi_!"

All three stopped in their tracks to meet the dragoon in the eye. Weiss held onto Jaune tighter as the man plodded forward, one arm reaching behind into the large leather bag hanging off the saddle behind his leg. She kept a straight face despite the voices screaming in panic in her head. She could probably tell Jaune's heart was pounding faster than hers—his sweat was seeping through his fabric into their interlaced fingers.

Could this be it? Have they been blown? By a sentry, no less! He's pulling something out from behind him—oh no, they were compromised! Hand on her saber—

" _Izvinitye_ ," the man apologized, each handing them a folded newspaper. " _Ya pochti zabyl_. _Udachnovo dnya_ , _tovarischi_."

They accepted them graciously. Jaune and Vastel returned the herald's salute before continuing on with a copy of the latest issue of the Bolshevik organ Pravda rolled under their armpits.

"Newspaper boy," Weiss later breathed, letting go of the hilt of her hidden blade and wrapping both her arms around his. "He was only distributing newspapers. Gods, I nearly panicked."

"I damn near pissed myself," Jaune muttered back.

Thankfully, the city was still waking up. The three of them reached without the train station that was connected to the main line of the Trans-Siberian Railway. It amazed the two young adults from Remnant how easily they fooled 'eagle-eyed' conductors to get onto the boxcar. It was more surprising how Vastel managed to outwit the handful of suspicious inspectors who had conveniently got off of breakfast from a nearby eatery.

Jäger only smiled as dumbly as he could until the last of them stepped off the railcar, giving him a long, hard, scrutinizing glare. Then he retreated into their booth where Wächter slid the door shut.

Jaune nearly collapsed onto the seat beside Weiss. "Are we clear?"

"For now."

That was as not as reassuring as he had hoped. "I think they were onto us."

"Don't jinx us," Fürstin chastised. Much of their luggage (and concealed equipment) were tucked under the seats or in the cupboards above their heads.

"Relax, Jaune," Vastel advised.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm relaxed. Very relaxed..."

From then on, much of their ride was in silence and muted conversation. Weiss was amazed that Jaune had not succumbed to his notorious motion sickness—he had conditioned himself well.

The blonde agent pressed himself by his window and watched the Siberian countryside speed past, a beautiful mix of natural scenery pocked by budding industry. They had reached the second leg of their journey without so much as a hitch. He did not know how long until their next train switch in Verkhneudinsk all the way in the Far East and the uncertainty of it made him paranoid despite Vastel's constant assurances.

The vibrations of the railcar lulled away some of his anxiety. Other than his own face in the glass, there were those of his squadron, the men he left behind in Archangel, the people he had met along the way...his old squad mates from the Western Front, may forever rest in peace...

He blinked and saw Ruby staring back at him. She smiled and he blinked again to see Yang in her place. Then Blake. He wiped his eyes and nearly lost his breath when Pyrrha beamed back at him. Behind her flashed Nora and Ren. The unbroken Beacon clock tower rose over the blurry forested fields, except French, German, Russian, and Chinese flags were hanging off its spires. Jaune pressed his hand against the window as he leaned in close.

Something weighed down on his other arm and he turned away to be met by a black wig nestled against his chin, underneath her head sagged over his shoulder. Warm, quiet breathes. A loose strand of white hair slipped through, sticking to her peaceful face.

Jaune smiled a little, petting Weiss's wigged scalp as she napped, ignoring Vastel's minute teasing grin peering over his Pravda newspaper.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 26, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 24, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 23, 2018**

 **NOTE: Thanks to the guest reviewer for bringing up the Moscow stopover. Details like those may seem minuscule but they can be woven to become significant factors that push the plot. Made for some nice prep scenes before the explosions. I** **n fact, I was considering a scene where they run into Lenin himself on the street before he goes to work at the Kremlin but I felt that it would be too much. The message of anxiety for Jaune and Weiss had already been delivered.**

 **Next chapter, definitely, is where things get _real_.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Dieu vous b_ _é_ _nisse_. = God bless you. [French]**

 ** _Dobroye utro_ , _tovarischi/komandir_. = Good morning, comrade/commander. [Russian]**

 ** _Ya nye komandir_ , _gospozha_. = I am not a commander, miss. [Russian]**

 ** _Podozhdi_! = Wait! [Russian]**

 ** _Izvinitye_... _Ya pochti zabyl_. _Udachnovo dnya_ , _tovarischi_. = Sorry... I almost forgot. Have a good day, comrades. [Russian]**


	31. August 23, 1919

_August 23, 1919_

* * *

It had been quite an interesting journey along the Trans-Siberian Railway for SSB Unit Erzengel. Other than the breathtaking scenery, it seemed as though the tracks weaved between different nations as they stopped by towns and checkpoints manned by friendly Czechoslovak troops. Out in the isolated countryside, however, they would get a surprise stop by Reds, then Whites, then Reds, and then Whites, and even some anarchist groups who fought both. Each time, they worked the disguise and most were none the wiser.

Eventually, their railcar pulled into the station at Verkhneudinsk, a crucial stopover north of the Mongolian border. The difference was evident. Warmer air and colorful cultural garbs.

Amidst the mixed crowd, the three agents were met by their SSB liaison, a large Caucasian man adorned in a colorful Asiatic coat interwoven with bright floral designs. A rifle was slung over his shoulder with his bayonet tucked into his belt of a sash while two German stick grenades were squeezed into his webbing. His bushy red beard distinguished him from everyone else including the Russians and the Czechoslovaks—to Weiss, the man could have easily passed for a native Cossack.

"Ah, Vasha!" greeted the rather overenthusiastic undercover operative, " _Ty prishel_! _Kak dela_ , _brat_?"

Vastel, unsurprisingly, played the part. And played it well. The two were hugging each other and loudly proclaiming their comradeship as though they were long-lost brothers which did more than enough to convince the gawking peasants and passers-by. All the while, Jaune leaned down into Weiss's ear and whispered, "I don't understand a single thing."

"You're not supposed to talk much," she hissed back. "You know how bad you are at this."

"Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence there."

"Be quiet."

Jaune rolled his eyes then smiled courteously when the bearded agent came over and shook his hand. Weiss went into prudish mode and exchanged pleasantries in that language that really flew over his head with their reversed Rs and the confusing Hs and Ns. And he had been in Russia for a year now.

They followed their point man across the rail station into a different train that was being prepared for departure on a separate track, exchanging nods with the Czechoslovak legionnaires polite nods along the way. Once inside the private booth in the railcar, they switched to English.

"It is unconfirmed but I hold no doubts that General Shu-Cheng is already marching to topple the Bogd Khan," SSB agent Polaris explained in a thick Scottish highlander accent. The man had been operating in Urga recently and traveled north to personally see them through the border.

"How soon?" Vastel pressed.

"I can't say. There is no definitive date and traveling east is too risky."

"So we'll be propping up the Bogd Khan?" Jaune interjected.

"On the surface, yes. Our overall priority, though, is to subdue the _M_ _é_ _ngg_ _ǔ_ _è_ _m_ _ó_."

Weiss raised her brow. "Pardon?"

"The Mongolian Demon."

"Right. And how are we going to do that?" Jäger interrogated.

Polaris smirked. "I was informed that you're the expert. You should have better ideas than what I've got."

The blonde sergeant frowned. He thought there had already been a plan in place. Were they seriously winging it? "I can't say anything unless I know what he's capable of."

"We don't have an accurate picture. But what I can tell you is that the bastard is fast, smart, deadly with a sword, and has the nose of a bloodhound."

"Noted," Fürstin remarked.

"One more thing and this probably has some basis. The bastard has sympathies."

Wächter raised his brow. "Sympathies?"

"Not in the same vein as the Reds up here," Polaris elaborated. "He holds no ideology and works for the money. That was until I found an after-action report from Inner Mongolia dated around two months ago when he turned on his employers. The job was to clear bandits active north of Kweisui. They found them, routed them, followed them to a small Orochen settlement. Ethnic minority, often the victims of the armies in the field. The battalion ignored their standing orders and were about to go on a killing spree."

"And that didn't suit well with him, huh," Jaune added.

"Not at all, apparently. There were a handful of survivors from the battalion who scurried back to friendly lines. The Orochens, on the other hand, moved further north into Mongolia. Unmolested."

"Do you have a copy of this report?" Vastel inquired.

Polaris shook his head. "Wasn't able to make one."

"Regardless, we have something we can use against him," Weiss issued.

"That depends on how you're going to get through to him, lass. _If_ we can find him. Tough as nails in the battlefield, tougher still to prod for empathy. And that's from the people who negotiated with him."

"Still worth the effort."

Polaris tilted his head with a squinted face. "Your confidence sure is something, eh, lass."

"How much do you know about us?" Jaune prodded.

"Frankly? You're the people with the best expertise in dealing with these freaks of nature."

Weiss frowned. "We're not freaks of nature."

"I never said you were." Polaris paused then queried, "You're one of them, aren't you."

"Of the same ilk," Jäger churned, using Hillard's own words to safely steer the tension away. "That about sums up who we are."

The bearded agent leaned back into the cushions as the locomotive whistled and the railcar began to move. "Good enough explanation for me."

* * *

Urga appeared to be far more modest than any of the villages they passed through. Among the rows of houses and yurts cluttered around the vast steppe plains stood a few towering establishments including a monastery of some kind that appeared to overlook the entire city.

Despite the serenity, a discernible air of uncertainty hung over the city. Horsemen, some of whom were armed with swords in place of rifles, galloped frantically towards the hilly east. Taking after subtle cues, Erzengel followed Polaris out of the station with their bags towards a parked taxi.

Wächter and Polaris quickly pulled into the front while Jaune and Weiss stuffed themselves into the back, their bulging bags taking up most of their leg room. The engine hummed and rumbled forward. The unadulterated scenery of the steppes, for some reason, injected the two with a sense of foreboding. Something was coming.

Barely a minute into their ride, Vastel twisted on his seat and spoke the first word of English since they got off the train. "Eyes and ears open."

"Already on the edge of my seat. What's going on here?" Jaune asked, seeing a shepherd nonchalantly herding cattle on a small horse across a meadow in the distance.

"The city is on high alert," Polaris replied stiffly. "Which could mean one of many things."

"Is one of those things those men up ahead?" Weiss pointed out.

Jaune squinted. Indeed, over a dozen soldiers in blue uniforms jogged directly towards them, their rifles raised and arms waving for them to stop. He stiffened, seeing Weiss slip her hand into her coat to grasp the hilt of her saber. While both of them have had harrowing experiences in two wars, they still felt the fear that would often befall those smuggling contraband. They had a whole cargo of damning weapons and equipment.

In contrast to their anxiety, Wächter and Polaris remained calm and even accosted the soldiers. Except in another language entirely.

" _N_ _ín_ _h_ _â_ _o_!"

" _T_ _í_ _ngzh_ _î_!" barked what appeared to be the platoon's commander if his lapels were to be of any indication. The rest of the soldiers surrounded the stopping car with their guns raised. " _J_ _ǔ_ _sh_ _ǒ_ _u_!"

Jäger and Fürstin watched the other two agents raise their hands as they calmly conversed while the soldiers surrounded the car and prodded at them with the tips of their bayonets. The two clutched at their bags crammed onto their lap, indecisive at the next course of action. Rightly terrified, they shared a glance, communicating silently—their mission had gone belly up; they were compromised; this was it...

The dialogue in the front seat had taken a softer tone with the officer toning down his aggression and ultimately cracking a courteous smile. The rest of the soldiers withdrew and stood aside while the taxi sputtered and trudged forward.

"What the hell was that?" Jaune demanded when they were far enough away.

Vastel laughed bitterly. "A modest Chinese welcome."

"You call that 'modest'!?" Weiss shrieked.

"'Chinese?'"

"More amicable than the Bolsheviks," Polaris retorted. "They're part of the Chinese troops sent to 'safeguard' the Bogd Khan and the other princes. If you ask me, I think they're more the vanguard for the main force that's most likely on its way to the capital."

"You said the Chinese have been planning an invasion of Mongolia, right?" Jäger pressured.

"For a long time now. With a civil war taking away their only guardian and the rest of the world focused elsewhere, this is their best shot. I wouldn't be surprised if these horsemen"—the bearded agent gestured at the galloping troops they were overtaking—"are riding to meet them."

"Where are we going then?"

"To see the chieftains. We advised them to negotiate. They should be parlaying with General Shu-Cheng." Their taxi was now speeding alongside the frontline of the cavalry. Already, they could see clouds of dust rising over the hills; a telltale sign of some large-scale commotion.

"Wait, wait," Vastel interjected, tapping the driver as the vehicle once again slowed. The horsemen did not let up and with a collective cry rushed into the melee. The taxi wheeled to the left. " _Merde de putain_!"

"Are they charging—"

"Fucking hell! Keep your heads down!" Polaris barked, snapping the lever into first gear and stomping on the accelerator, narrowly avoiding a rider falling off his mount. The car bound over the hill, overlooking the bloodletting where a convoy of covered trucks were huddled in the distance. "There! The rear echelon!"

"Is it safe to ride directly into battle!?" Weiss demanded, gripping tight onto their belongings.

"Skirt around them!" Vastel barked, pulling out his pistol. " _Fils de pute_! They're advancing in force! The Mongolians will be overrun!"

Then Jaune heard it. Amid the roaring engine and the staccato of gunfire, his ears picked out that discernible sound that never ceased to haunt him since his first day on the Western Front. Reflexes took over; he grabbed Weiss and pushed her down while screaming, "Artillery!"

"What are—oh gobshite!"

The blast sent the taxi careening off the road. From inside vehicle, one could see sky, then earth, then clouds of dirt, until a fuzzy blur zipped through before everything went dark.

* * *

The first thing his body registered was the smell of burnt rubber. Jaune reached his arms out and gripped fistfuls of earth. He was on his belly and half his body was in pain. Thank goodness for his Aura. He crawled forward until he pulled himself up while leveraging on some metallic debris...which happened to be the chassis from their mangled and overturned taxi, the rubber wheels bent and charred.

The blonde sergeant coughed and staggered. "Weiss! Weiss!"

"Jaune," she cried out from somewhere. "I'm pinned!"

"Weiss!" Jaune followed her voice, his vision hindered by dirt in his eyes and his ears ringing. Around him, people were yelling. Then gunfire. Lots of gunfire. Lots of smoke. Thick clouds of dirt kicked up by the scuffling of soldiers caught in a melee. One foot in front of the other, he trudged around the overturned vehicle until he saw her white hair spread over their luggage, the black wig thrown out. The sight roused him from his stupor and he rushed over and gripped her arm. "Hey, hey! Weiss, I got you!"

"I'm stuck," she said. "My leg..."

Jaune acted on that. Her limb was buried under the dented roof of the taxi. A white glyph flickered underneath, relieving some of the weight. He pressed his body against the roof, trying in vain to push it off.

"Jaune... Don't strain yourself!"

Jäger ignored her; he flipped onto his front and planted both his hands against the vehicle's canopy and channeled his Aura. With the increasing glow came increasing strength. Grunts escaped his clenched teeth until the taxi angled upwards until the glyph flashed in force and bounced it upright onto its crumpled wheels. Jaune then pulled her up, noting the limp in her leg, reddened and slowly healing.

"Thank you. I think I can walk," Weiss panted, holding onto him to steady her balance.

"Your leg."

"I know." The former heiress took in their surroundings. Mongolian troops in thick padded jackets hollered past, some with curved swords waving over their heads, charging towards an advancing battalion of uniformed Chinese infantry. "Where's Vastel?"

"I don't know," he coughed out. Three feet in front of them, a Mongolian soldier was stopped dead in his tracks by a bullet to his neck, cutting of his shrill battle cry while his body dropped under a fountain of his own blood. "We need to get out of here! It's not safe."

" _Gu_ _ǐ_ _zi_!"

Jaune turned around to see a Chinese rifleman screeching towards him. The glint of his bayonet was enough warning and the blonde sergeant reacted quick enough; he twisted in front of Weiss, parried the incoming thrust, and wrestled the gun out of his hands. Or tried to. His opponent released his grip and socked him on the chin, knocking him off balance.

He stumbled, leaving Weiss to wave her finger. A bright glyph blunted the man who tumbled back. She swiftly stooped down to help Jaune up.

Both caught the soldier recovering and the confusion across his face before two close pops rang out and a bright crimson stain spread across his chest until he dropped, revealing a staggering Vastel behind him, his pistol smoking.

"Jäger! Fürstin!" he called out. " _Dieu merci_! Are you alright?"

The two straggled over to him, nearly stumbling over their own bags scattered around them. "We're fine! Where's Polaris?" Weiss yelled.

"I do not know!" Coughing. Blood seeping through his fingers pressed against his side. " _Merde_! Gather what you can!"

"You're wounded!"

"I will deal with that later," the lieutenant snapped, stooping to pick up his own field kit. "The Mongolians are overrun. Do not stray and do not antagonize the Chinese!"

The two complied, scooping up as much as they could carry, recovering Weiss's cavalry saber but forgoing Jaune's broken rifle. Their backs, shoulders, and arms ached while their throats burned from some of the dirt they swallowed in the explosion. They coughed as they held each other, keeping their pace with Vastel who was heading towards the Chinese positions.

" _Y_ _ǒ_ _ush_ _à_ _n_! _Y_ _ǒ_ _ush_ _à_ _n_!" the lieutenant hollered. " _B_ _ù_ _y_ _à_ _o k_ _ā_ _i qi_ _āng_! _Shòushāng_!"

Jaune's ears were still ringing yet he heard more of that dreadful whistling. "Artillery! Get down!" he screamed, dropping and pulling Weiss down with him.

Vastel disappeared behind an expanding cloud of dirt churned up by the shells landing precariously close. This was all familiar territory. The heat of battle, the smell of gunpowder, pieces of the Earth raining down on them. It was the Western Front all over again. The recent fighting against the Bolsheviks in the north was tame compared to the hell that was the slugfest along the Aisne, Ypres, and Marne rivers.

He heard whimpering amid the deafening pounding of the artillery. It was Weiss. Struggling to keep a straight face. She was gritting her teeth, holding fast against the pressure of the raging battle.

Jaune crawled on top of her where her head was now below his chin. "Shh, shh, hey," he wheezed into her scalp. "It's okay, it's okay, I got you..."

And he pressed his hands against her ears. He could stand the blasts but Weiss...she may have been hotly pursued by an army but she was probably never exposed to this intense a bombardment, let alone any direct sustained bombardment. Neither Nora nor any reckless abuse of explosive Dust could equal the deafening and psychologically damaging power of constant, ceaseless shelling. It was chipping away at her psyche and she was a better Huntress than he was!

"We've been through worse, we've been through worse," he chanted though unable to hear his own voice amid the explosions. "It'll be over, it'll be over..."

Much like the Western Front, the bombardment continued for minute after agonizing minute—boom, boom, boom, boom—until his mind belatedly registered the silence hanging in the air. Jaune shook off the layers of soil that piled on top of him so he could raise his head to see...a cratered plain littered with dead. Lots of dead. Some bodies were incomplete with separate pieces spread unevenly over the field. It amazed him how lucky they were that not a single shell landed close enough to seriously harm them despite being out in the open.

"Is it over?" Weiss whimpered from underneath him.

Jaune rolled off of her and helped her up. As they did so, the smoke cleared. And a silhouette was the first thing that greeted them. The silhouette was rigid, clad in colorful Asiatic robes with two German stick grenades tucked into his belt. The blonde sergeant cried out, "Hey! Hey! Polaris! Holy shit, you're okay! We need—"

Polaris dropped to his knees, his empty stare unchanging. A boot from his killer forced the blade out of his back and his body dropped limply onto the ground.

Sergeant Ionas Arkos and Lady Weiss Schnee remained frozen in each other's hold at the shadow standing before them. Black tunic, black trousers and boots, single-edged blade hanging off his grip with the sheath spearing out from his belt. A white Grimm mask, cracked across the left eye slits. And the two charcoal horns jutting over a tuft of red and brown hair.

"... Schnee?" the man echoed.

"... You," Weiss hissed.

Jaune narrowed his gaze. "... White Fang?"

"How did you...?" the assassin began only to be interrupted by the rising battle cries of more Chinese troops pouring into the battlefield. "You are an illusion... You cannot be real."

"We're real, alright. Do you remember me? Do you remember us, Adam Taurus!?" screeched the former heiress of the Schnee Dust Company.

"You are not real!" Adam snarled back, pulling out a pistol and leveling it at her head. "I am alone. I am the last of my kind. You are a figment of my imagination!"

Before Jaune could do anything, Weiss pulled herself away and conjured a large glyph. The saber came loose and was already directed at the faunus. "You were there at Beacon. I remember you. You're unmistakeable. What you did...was unforgivable!"

"Weiss!" Sergeant Arkos screamed, wishing he still had his rifle. He grabbed hold of her but she pushed him back with another separate glyph. "Weiss! Get a grip!"

Adam, on the contrary, was unfazed. Rather, he was...bemused. "Illusions cannot hurt me. You do not exist."

"I exist, damn you! And I. Will. _Hurt_. You!"

"You cannot harm the Demon!" he growled.

Jaune gawked at him, having finally gathered his wits. Memories of the White Fang's involvement in the Fall flashed anew in his mind. Terrorists cutting down civilians like butter, letting the Grimm wantonly rip the rest apart... And this bastard who led them... "You're the Demon of Mongolia. It makes sense now. Cuts through enemy lines like butter, slicing up troops like fish on a table. That's you!"

"Yes," the mercenary acknowledged coldly. "I am who these people call the Demon of Mongolia. And I intend to make my mark on this world for there is no going back to the last."

"Don't you dare disregard your crimes at Beacon!"

"Beacon?" Adam chuckled. "What is done is done. This is my afterlife."

Jaune grit his teeth. "That's my line, asshole! And I'm going to beat it out of you! You got here somehow and I know you have some way of getting back!"

"There is no going back! The Relics have been corrupted and their tampering has banished me to this realm of endless war!"

What? What Relics? Weiss, however, had had enough and with a shrill roar propelled herself forward off of her glyph with her saber held at length, ready to impale him. Adam reacted. He leapt high above her and landing gracefully yards away. This time, his bared teeth showed some emotion.

Weiss recovered quickly, numb to the pain in her bruised leg, and charged again, darting through the battlefield, past an advancing line of bewildered Chinese troops. Her saber once again met air. Adam was already sprinting over the hills in the distance. Away from them.

"Weiss! Damn it, Weiss!" Jaune hollered, running with the weight of most of their gear bearing down on him. "Come on, Aura."

He leapt over craters and corpses, reaching down to snag a gun from a corpse, and breezed directly in front of an entire brigade of confused Chinese soldiers. One of them, a balding man whose lapels bore the stars of a general, met Jaune's passing glance with astonishment.

"Sorry! Excuse me! Passing through!" the blonde sergeant barked as he strained to catch up with the fuming heiress with the running speed of a gazelle.

* * *

"Jaune, he's getting away!" Weiss hollered.

" _You're_ getting away! Wait up!" he panted, leg muscles burning and aching.

"Don't slow us down!"

Jaune exhausted another bout of his Aura to drag him another ten meters. "I don't have a Semblance that boosts my speed, goddamn it!"

"Argh, just hurry up!"

With a burst of speed, two charged after the disappearing dot, the steppes morphing into hills covered by rugged woodland, until Weiss tripped on a log and tumbled down a ditch. Jaune screamed her name and slid down after her, eventually coming to land in front of her, sweat dripping down his cheeks, veins pumping in his temples. Ultimately, his controlled slide devolved into a loose roll that ended with him flat on his back beside Weiss.

Both were now thoroughly exhausted. They stayed on the ground, their muscles aching and tired, their clothes sticking to their skin from their own sweat. Eventually, Jaune forced himself up. He beat through the underbrush until he hoisted her by the arm.

"You...dolt!" she wheezed. "We lost him!"

"I almost lost you! We were nearly separated!" he argued, dropping onto his rear.

"Quick! I think he was headed north," she rebounded between gasps. "We can cut him off by going around."

Jaune scratched the back of his head while crickets croaked from all around. Steep incline behind them, thick forest surrounding them. He reached into his pack and sorted through what was left of their gear. He finally pulled out their compass. Which was broken; the dome was cracked and the hand was permanently stuck hovering over southwest.

"Um...which way is north?"

Weiss opened her mouth. Then shut it. Then turned around. Looked around. She tried to point in a direction. Except the path led to a rock wall. Grounding out frustration, she asked, "Is the compass working?"

"It's, uh, broken."

She stared at him for a moment. "... Great! Oh, how magnificent!"

"Hey, we're still alive."

"And hopelessly lost."

If you had not let your emotions get the best of you then they would have not been, Jaune wanted to say. Instead, he began sorting through their bags. "We haven't lost most of our stuff so that's a plus. Huh... Alpine kit's out. Nothing that would help us assail a rock face... Food is still good though. Crushed bit still good."

Weiss sat on a rock with her head in her hands. "We are lost in the middle of the Far East with no map and a broken compass. To compound our troubles, our guides are dead."

"Hey, Vastel could still be alive." Prick as he was, the lieutenant was their chaperone. The man was an excellent polyglot who carried the maps of their supposed areas of operation. Besides, Jaune didn't really _see_ any recognizable remains. Then again, artillery could make human bodies unrecognizable. Still, Vastel could very will indeed still be alive. Albeit severely hemorrhaging from getting blown up. Or he got lucky. He shook his head. He could not say the same for Polaris, though. "Look, we're on our own here."

"And what do you suppose you have us do?"

"... Get to civilization. We need to find shelter. To rest. Because goddamn it, my body hurts and don't tell me you're not in the same amount of pain I'm in!" The darkening clouds overhead were not very comforting. "We need to get into contact with the locals too. They could help us out."

"Jaune. You and I could barely speak Mandarin."

"Hey, I know a few words."

She raised her brow at him. "Do you?"

"Erm... _Nǐ hào ma_?"

"Do you even know what that means?"

"Err, uh... Hello?"

Weiss sighed. "Leave the talking to me..."

"Agreed." Jaune sat down next to her. "How about we follow the road and see where that takes us?"

She scoffed. "Right. Blindly trek through a foreign country where we barely understand the language in the hopes of finding someone who may or may not shoot us on the spot or report us to people who may or may not shoot us on the spot."

"Hey, it's better than sitting here moping about being lost!"

"Fine! Just...give me a minute."

"Yeah, I need a breather too."

Silence. And crickets. Hundreds of them.

After what felt like five minutes of gathering their bearings, Jaune heard Weiss stand up from her spot and slowly inch towards him. "... Jaune? Listen. I...apologize. I...got so caught up in getting Adam that...we ended up in this situation."

To be honest, he could barely stay mad at her. There were far more pressing matters at hand such as their survival out here in the wilderness. This was not frozen Russia but it still arrayed parallel dangers. "Hey, I forgive you."

She shot up and gawked at him. "Really? That fast? Normally, it takes several days and a lawsuit or seven before the accused would offer a public apology or settle out of court."

Jaune blinked. "Um, I...forgive...you? It's, uh, nothing. Now. We should just focus on what we can do now."

"Yeah, you're right."

Crickets again.

"I'm good. Let's start walking," the blonde sergeant chirped, standing up and, with a pained wince, hefting up two thirds of their load. There was no visible path so he picked a direction and started walking.

Weiss followed with her own pack. "I am trusting your sense of direction, Jaune."

"Hey, maybe with our luck, we'll be out of the woods by sundown."

Needless to say, by sunset, they both came to the conclusion that they were even more lost.

* * *

"I can't believe this."

"Eh, we've been through worse."

Weiss brought her legs further up to her chin. Thunder crackled outside, overcoming the ceaseless pattering of the rain. "We were in the comforts of a railcar last night and now..."

Jaune scooted close to her, their little campfire surviving the wind blowing through the mouth of the cavern that was big enough to accommodate them. "On the bright side, no Deathstalker, eh? No Grimm to infest any caves."

"Don't jinx us."

"Hey, I'll take this over the Emerald Forest any day," he answered. While rugged, they were at least dry and warm. And no precariously hanging stalactites too. He moved across from her to lie down on the cot he stretched out over the least flattest patch of dry rock bed. Being the gentleman that he was, he conveniently transferred Weiss's beddings further inside, away from the rain and any possible spillovers.

Weiss picked up her saber before she joined him. "Keep your hands to yourself."

He raised his hands over his head, casting shapes against the ceiling, before dropping them down. "Hands staying by my side at all times."

She shuffled onto her cot, using her own coat as her blanket and her pack as her pillow with her back turned to him. "Goodnight, Jaune."

Silence. Cackling fire against pattering rain.

Shuffling. "... Hey, Weiss?"

A sigh. "... Yes, Jaune?"

"Back in Archangel. Last year when you left... Why'd you kiss me?"

Weiss clammed up. She could hear Jaune rustling. He was probably facing her now, boring a hole into the back of her head.

"It's okay. You don't have to answer me."

She swallowed down the lump that formed in her throat. She knew this would come back to bite her back in her posterior. "... I was afraid I wouldn't see you again."

"... I see." More shuffling. "North Dakota's a really nice place."

"Yes. It is."

"Lovely people. Multicultural, too. Lot of open land."

The former heiress turned to lay on her back. "A wonderful place to settle down."

"And start a family." Jaune turned his head to look at her.

"And start a family." Weiss craned her neck to meet his blue crystal orbs.

The fire cackled between them, casting flickering light across their features as they held each other's gaze. Lady Schnee stretched her free hand towards him which Sergeant Arkos wrapped timidly in his own grasp. Wordless, hypnotic, and the serene.

And then pretty damn awkward after that.

"... Right. Okay! Um, have a good night then," Jaune stammered, hastily pulling back and turning on his side to face the cave wall. "Uh, gotta be early for tomorrow, right? Right, 'cause, y'know, we're, uh, we need to find civilization and stuff..."

"Of course, of course!" Weiss reciprocated, brushing her hand against the edges of her coat and twisted in place to rest on her hip. "Err, likewise, ah, have a good rest. Sleep is important."

"G'night, Snow Angel."

"Goodnight, Jaune."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 6, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 25, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 25, 2018**

 **NOTE: Longest chapter for this story so far but a lot can happen in a day. And the first mercenary has been unmasked.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Ty prishel_! _Kak dela_ , _brat_? = You're here! How are you, brother? [Russian]**

 ** _M_ _é_ _ngg_ _ǔ_ _è_ _m_ _ó_ = Mongolian demon [Chinese]**

 ** _N_ _ín_ _h_ _â_ _o_! = Hello! [Chinese]**

 ** _T_ _í_ _ngzh_ _î_! ... _J_ _ǔ_ _sh_ _ǒ_ _u_! = Stop! ... Hands up! [Chinese]**

 ** _Merde de putain_! and _Fils de pute_! = French cusses**

 ** _Gu_ _ǐ_ _zi_! = Foreigner! [Mandarin slang, derogatory]**

 ** _Dieu merci_! = Thank God! [French]**

 ** _Y_ _ǒ_ _ush_ _à_ _n_! _Y_ _ǒ_ _ush_ _à_ _n_! ... _B_ _ù_ _y_ _à_ _o k_ _ā_ _i qi_ _āng_! _Shòushāng_! = Friendly! Friendly! ... Don't shoot! Wounded! [Chinese]**

 **_Nǐ hào ma_? = How are you? [Chinese]**


	32. August 30, 1919

_August 30, 1919_

* * *

"Um, are you sure this is south?" Jaune asked for the fourth time along their trek.

"I'm sure, Jaune," Weiss grounded out through grit teeth while she trudged through a muddy dirt path that snaked through the forest wetted by an extended drizzle. In the distance rose clouded mountain ranges, a significant landmark after days of journeying through nigh endless steppes and skirting the edges of the expansive desert. "Some confidence would be very well appreciated, you know."

It was hard being confident when they were clearly lost. Again. To avoid getting torn a new anus by his partner, he kept that notion to himself and instead said, "My compass is pointing the other way."

"Now it finally works!?" the former heiress shrieked, twisting over the quagmire to see the red arrow teetering over the N. "Are you sure it's even working?"

"The hand's moving so that's a plus."

"Ugh, fine. You lead the way then." A low grumble resonated from her stomach. "How much food do we have left?"

"Enough to last us a couple more days," Jaune replied. "Assuming the weather doesn't cause it to spoil or we, um, y'know, lose them in a brook."

Weiss growled. How was she supposed to know that log was loose? Besides, he agreed to let her reduce his cumbersome load by a significant fraction. "I've already apologized for it. Stop bringing it up."

"I wasn't!" He could feel her glowering into his back. "Okay, so I'm still a little peeved about it. That old lady used the last of her dough to bake us those muffins."

She groaned. "Let it go already."

Jaune huffed in amusement. It was fun pushing her buttons. Anything to get his mind off the creeping hopelessness of their predicament. They barely understood the directions given them by the locals in the last village after they lost the map that had been given them by a sympathetic militiaman in the village before that. What he recalled was a lot of pointing towards these mountains. At least, they were spared any encounters with Chinese troops.

"I'm game for sleeping in a cave tonight," he mused.

Weiss was not smiling. "I haven't had a change of clothes since we lodged in that one town. I don't think I can stomach another leech-infested dwelling carved into the side of a cliff face."

"Neither of us have had a bath in nearly a week." For crying out loud, Jaune wanted to scream; suck it up, Weiss! He stank, she stank. She trekked through the frozen forests of Northern Russia while being pursued by the Red Army for a couple weeks. Had she taken breaks to clean up during that time?

Until they could find a pond or some clean water source, then maybe they could indulge in some well-deserved hygiene. With ground rules, of course. Because she would castrate him for being within twenty feet of her undressing. Not that he had any lewd intentions—he still held onto his morals, damn it—but twenty feet was a little extreme.

"Can you please keep your eyes on where you're stepping?" she threw back. "I don't want to help you clean off stool from your boots again."

"In fairness, I wasn't asking you to help me with that." Jaune then rounded the sparse trail. And nearly leapt off his feet in excitement. "Whoa, over there! Smoke!"

She rushed over beside him. "What? Where?"

"Over there!" The blonde sergeant pointed to a grey pillar rising from a glen below them. "Smoke means people."

Weiss kept her hand on the hilt of her saber while she trailed after him. "Be careful! Who knows who it could be?"

After hastily pushing through thick vegetation, Jaune finally stumbled out into the open patch. Someone was sitting on an overturned log, staring at the fire burning into ditch. He was aware of how noisy he was wading through the forest so it struck him as odd that this person did not show much of a reaction to the sudden intrusion.

It was even odder with the straight backed posture. Weiss came up behind him and was equally perplexed. Her hand wrapped around the hilt of her saber while the other held him back.

" _N_ _ǐ_ _h_ _ǎ_ _o_?" she called nervously, inching closer to the unmoving figure. " _Xi_ _ā_ _nsh_ _ē_ _ng_? _Xi_ _ǎojiě_?"

She was already directly behind the figure. Was this person deaf or something? Asleep perhaps? No surprise seeing people asleep while sitting upright. Or worse...dead.

" _Nǐ_ _h_ _ǎ_ _o_?" she repeated.

With one hand ready to draw the blade, Weiss reached out with her other to the tap the person on the shoulder. Only for said person to suddenly disappear at her touch. She almost fell back on her rear had she not somehow recognized that defiance of the laws of physics...as someone's Semblance.

The split second sound of dried leaves crunching in the underbrush was enough warning for Jaune to grab Weiss and pull her back before a sickle shot out from the bushes, embedding itself into the tree behind her. A chain stretched from the end of the handle towards the shadows of the undergrowth. A wave of force rippled along the link until the sickle was yanked back into the dark. A blurry figure then darted behind the woods.

Weiss now had her saber drawn while Jaune unslung his rifle.

Footfalls...behind them!

Fürstin was quick and rolled out of the way. Jäger, unfortunately, was not and ended up getting shoved violently into the ground. Almost immediately, the weight on his spine lifted. He scrambled over to his gun only to be swiped away by a black boot. He looked up to see a sparking exchange of lights and shadows, steel clanging against steel in a coordinated exchange.

He had barely registered his surroundings when he heard Weiss yell, "Enough, Blake!"

Silence. Stiff silence.

"... Weiss?"

Weiss, panting, lowered her blade. The spinning glyph behind her began to die down. "Blake Belladonna... Oh gods, I thought I'd never see you again!"

Jaune pushed himself up onto his feet, catching the feline faunus's attention. Dark unkempt hair and piercing amber eyes. For sure there were purple cat ears tucked under that chipped straw hat. "Holy shit... Blake?"

"Jaune?" Blake muttered dumbly, the katana and kusarigama wavering in her grip. "W-wha...y-y-you..."

Weiss took a step closer. "Blake. Calm down. It's me, Weiss."

"I...I..."

"You're the Feng-t'ien Ghost," Jäger concluded. "Heh, I guess it suits you. You know...with your Semblance of shadows and all. Right?"

Blake gulped. She suddenly raised her weapons at them—clear substitutes to Gambol Shroud. "No! No, you... You're... I'm hallucinating!"

Jaune tossed his hands in the air in exasperation. "Goddamn it, here we go again!"

"Blake, please!"

"Shut up!" the Ghost pleaded before she began rambling to herself. "There was something in the berries. Yeah, the berries were poisonous. Shouldn't've eaten them."

"Easy, Blake," Jäger cooed, approaching her steadily. "I'm real. We're both real. We're real here. You can touch us if you want." He paused. "Wait. That's not what I meant. I mean...you know what I mean!"

Weiss stepped in and wiped the last layer of make-up off her face to reveal her scar. "Blake. It really is us."

Her lower lip quivered until Blake tossed her sickle at them. Weiss dodged easily while Jaune leapt at the faunus. His arms phased through a hollow vanishing clone and he landed clumsily on his belly.

"Blake!" his partner yelled. "Argh! Please, stop! Listen! We're not going to hurt you! Bla~ake!"

"Should've known she'd freak out like that," Jaune mumbled.

Weiss threw him onto his feet with a glyph then handed him his rifle. She pointed to clearing between the trees. "This way! She couldn't have gone far."

"You sure?"

"This time, I am."

* * *

Their pursuit led them through a winding path that burst out of the woodlands into an open valley. A thin trail snaked around the plain and from where they were perched, they could see a shadow sprinting through the blades of tiger grass, sticking close to the overhanging canopies of the trees.

"She's too far off," Jaune grumbled. His hand slipped to the stock of his gun as a cringing option crossed his mind. "She has her Aura up. It's going to hurt but I think I can..."

"No," Weiss contested, her saber at the ready. "Leave this to me."

Before he could say anything, he felt the blowback from the sudden burst of speed that propelled his partner through the open air towards their target, her every step enhanced by her glyphs. He scrambled to the edge of the slope overlooking the valley and squinted.

Impressively, Weiss landed on top of Blake. He proceeded to observe the two scuffle with the latter constantly slipping out of the former's grasp. Glyphs, clones, glyphs, clones—it was a cycle that was slowly turning in Blake's favor. Jaune grit his teeth; they lost Adam, they can't lose Blake!

Already laying prone, he unslung his rifle and took aim. It was a long shot but he was confident in his marksmanship. He held his breath, steadying his grip. The action before him was quick, intense, with Blake jumping back and forth between illusions of herself that Weiss frustratingly cut through.

"I'm sorry, Blake."

Dust rounds had always been manufactured with a doctrine for its usage: either to kill Grimm or safely incapacitate a hostile, non-cooperative person. And while Aura could shield against a tipped round, it still hurt like hell. He knew from experience: it was always excruciating to be on the receiving end of a seven-nine-two cartridge.

"This is going to hurt."

He wished the seven-six-twos that were chambered into this rifle would do less damage to Blake than the larger bullets he was peppered with on the Western Front. His finger slid around the curve of the trigger.

"But this is for your own good."

And squeezed.

* * *

Weiss speared through another doppelgänger, matching up to Blake's zigzagging frame. She was getting close. With a final burst of energy, she zipped forward, the dull end of her blade raised and ready to knock her old teammate off balance.

Pop!

Half-second whistle.

Blake yelped; her shoulder snapped violently and the rest of her body tumbled out of reach.

"Blake!"

The horrified agent scrambled over to where the mercenary fell and heaved her onto her back. The faunus was clutching at a hole that had been torn through the fabric of her tunic. A crumpled bullet dropped out of her sleeve.

"Oh my gosh, Blake!" Weiss stammered, putting pressure on a wound that was close to bleeding. "Are you alright!?"

She hissed and writhed. Until her amber irises, glistening with stinging tears, connected with hers and her voice came out in a soft betrayed hiss. "D-did you...shoot me?"

"I didn't, I—" Fürstin threw her head back. Even at this distance, she caught Jäger standing up with both hands working the bolt on his gun. When she looked back down, she was frustrated by another clone that vanished at her touch.

Whether or not the shot was worth it, it did slow Blake down. Because both agents managed to later corner her against a mountain of debris that Weiss had collapsed to block her route. This was quickly followed by seven to ten surrounding glyphs enclosing any possible means of escape.

They took a step forward and she fell onto her rump, pushing herself up against the bark, screeching. "Back! Get back! Go away! Stop haunting me! I'm the Ghost, not you! You're _dead_! _Go away_!"

Jaune and Weiss now loomed over her. They shared a look over her pitiful form. The latter sighed and kneeled. The feeling of her fingers pressing against her shoulder froze her. Blake stilled, cheeks puffed and damp. Weiss smiled then swept her up in a warm, tight embrace.

The blonde sergeant met her astonishment peeking over his partner's shoulder with a sympathetic shrug. "Blake. Whatever you did that you blame yourself for, we forgive you. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're not alone anymore. And neither are we."

The former heiress extricated herself, adding, "We are very much alive. And we missed you so much." Her own tears were now dropping onto the faunus's palms. "I thought I lost you. I thought I'd never see you again. I'm so...I'm so glad...that it's really you..."

Jaune joined in with a quick hug of his own, encompassing both girls in his arms. The containing glyphs surrounding them vanished. "It's been a long while, you know. A lot of things we want to ask."

"Blake Belladonna," Weiss declared, "we have a lot of catching up to do."

The Feng-t'ien Ghost was quiet. Her jaw clamped shut and she turned away to massage her aching shoulder. The two held their tongues until she looked back up at them and finally cracked a weak smile. "... Yeah. We sure do. Weiss, Jaune... It's so good to see you guys again. I thought...I thought you were both dead..."

The former heiress beamed. "We're very much alive and well."

The blonde sergeant awkwardly scratched the back of his head. "Breathing and in the flesh. Um...sorry for shooting you. You, uh, gave me no choice."

"I disagree. You did _not_ have to resort to such measures, Jaune," Weiss sneered.

"It was that or we'd wind up getting lost again!" Jaune argued, his rifle still in his grip.

The two bantered, drowning out Blake's chuckles.

* * *

The expanse of cracked rice paddies was as haunting as the stories that surrounded the rest of the property. Local legends and ghost stories were more than enough to keep it isolated—the nearest village was an hour's walk away. While the farmhouse itself was outwardly derelict, the interior was renovated to accommodate the Feng-t'ien Ghost. Surrounded by trees, shrubbery, and unchecked bamboo stalks, the estate was the perfect safe house.

Undisturbed, forgotten, and peaceful. Until two voices shrieked through the thin paper walls.

"We're _what_!?"

"You're in Manchuria," Blake calmly repeated after a sip of her herbal tea.

Jaune and Weiss sagged on their matts. The latter mumbled, "Just how far...have we gone?"

The former rubbed his forehead while he stared at the ceiling. "I thought we were still in Mongolia! I should've known that map was faulty. Since when did we cross the border!?"

"Technically, this is Inner Mongolia but we're in the Manchurian part of it so either you guys are bad at reading maps or you genuinely got lost."

"How can you tell without any cartography?" Weiss asked.

"For one, if you've seen the Great Wall, then you've already crossed into China," the Ghost explained. "You guys said you came from Urga, right? How'd you get all the way over here from there?"

The two SSB agents shared a glance before nervously shrugging. "We, uh, tried a few things," Jaune mumbled.

Blake raised her brow to which Weiss continued, "We snuck onto a train."

"Had to jump out of that one," her partner interjected regretfully, "because the conductors were checking for tickets and we didn't want to start something that might derail the whole train...and cause innocent casualties."

A sigh. "Then we hitchhiked. Frequently."

A shrug. "The locals were friendly but we could barely understand them. Amazing, though, how you can live off of horse milk while riding the horse you milked it from."

A frown. "And Jaune, here, had the lovely idea of using my glyphs to gain ground quicker."

A scowl. "It was worth a shot. We were literally sprinting faster than those horses!"

The Ghost smirked. "Well, whatever you two did, you're in Manchuria now. The whole region is under the control of the Old Marshal."

"Old Marshal? You mean Marshal Tuan Chi-jui?" Jaune inquired.

She shook her head. "No. Marshal Chang Tso-lin. His standing army is on par with the rest of the Beiyang forces. They have aircraft, armor, and experienced mercenary officers. That's why it's far more convenient that he's on even terms with the government in Peking. For now."

"That is a fragile balance of power," Weiss remarked.

"It runs deeper than that," Blake acquiesced.

"How deep?"

The Ghost set down her cup and stared out the window towards the abandoned rice fields. The setting sun cast its bright orange light over the scenery, mimicking the hollow beauty that glistened back at her. "The Japanese." She sighed. "Guys, be honest, please. What do you know about me?"

"You're a mercenary for one of the head honchos around here," Jaune deadpanned. "Unless there's more to it than that."

"I have the same assessment," Weiss added. "What more is there?"

"Would you think I'm crazy if I told you that the Japanese are funding the factions?" The two agents did not appear surprised. They gestured at Blake to continue. "Marshal Tso-lin is my employer. Until the Japanese say otherwise."

"The Japanese are pulling the strings?" Jaune leaned back. "... Now that I think about it...they'd be the man behind the man."

"How long as this been going on?" the former heiress interrogated.

"Two or three decades now."

The blonde sergeant whistled. "You're saying they're selling arms to both sides. Sounds like they want to keep the Chinese divided. What for?"

"My guess?" Blake piped. "Expansionism. Can also be translated as border security, trade rights, exploitation... Weakening a long-existing geopolitical rival."

"Russia was the only power that kept both China and Japan in check," Weiss echoed distantly. "With the civil war going on, the Japanese are free to realize their ambitions, whatever they are. And the Chinese are more able to maneuver without fear of retaliation from the Russians...or whichever side they have not antagonized."

"That's...quite the insight," Blake curiously remarked.

"We were in Urga right when the Chinese invaded," Jaune recounted dimly, seeing Blake's brows rise. "We were there. We barely got out of that mess. And that's only the Chinese. The Japanese, from what I know, have a larger than usual force in Vladivostok, about three times more than the Americans and the British combined. That means something. Can't just be security. Could be force projection. Or worse, what you said: expansion."

"We ran into Adam Taurus," Weiss threw in.

The Ghost sat rigidly upright. Her faunus ears, free and unhindered by her straw hat, were erect with alarm. "Adam?"

She nodded. "No mistake. He's here. And, like you, he's a mercenary on the Chinese payroll. Explains their recent victories. Based off of what you said, he's probably under the thumb of someone else, probably a rival of your employer."

"We were chasing after him when we got lost," Jaune continued. "He killed one of our guides. It's...complicated. And...here we are."

Blake analyzed her guests. "... You guys need to fill me in on everything. Start with how you got here and how long you've been here."

Weiss breathed. "To be frank, neither of us have any idea of how we ended up here on Earth in the first place. Everything after that, however..."

Jaune scratched the back of his head. "It's...a long story."

The Feng-t'ien Ghost stood up and collected three bedrolls from the closet. She then spread them across the floor before lighting a couple oil lamps. "We've got all night."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 9, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: October 28, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 28, 2018**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _N_ _ǐ_ _h_ _ǎ_ _o_? ... _Xi_ _ā_ _nsh_ _ē_ _ng_? _Xi_ _ǎojiě_? = Hello? ... Mister? Miss?**


	33. August 31, 1919

**NOTE: This was difficult to write.**

* * *

 _August 31, 1919_

* * *

It had been an informative evening. That much could be said when Jaune, Weiss, and Blake woke up to the sun beaming through the gaps in the walls. So many things to take in. Fairy tales, secret wars, and a desperate failsafe that came at a heavy cost. A corrupted Relic whose unstable energies banished them a universe away where, even in the absence of Grimm, things were much worse.

When Beacon fell, the world witnessed the heart of the campus engulfed in a powerful blast. While contained within the base of the tower, there were three immediate casualties that were reported: Weiss Schnee, Pyrrha Nikos, and Jaune Arc. All apparently caught in the blast radius, the only remains retrieved being Myrtenaster and Crocea Mors. A fourth, Headmaster Ozpin, was added after a thorough search yielded his signature cane.

Hearing Blake recount the trauma and the pain made it difficult for Jaune and Weiss to sleep through the rest of the night. Ruby was devastated, Yang was depressed, Ren cracked, and Nora crumbled. The nasty revelations of the fallout from their supposed 'deaths' made their late morning breakfast uncomfortably quiet until Jaune cleared his throat.

"So... How goes the spy business?"

Weiss and Blake stared at him. "We're all spies," the latter deadpanned.

"We have a mission, you have a mission," the former laid out. "How are we going to address this?"

"I don't think I'd be tapped for any quick operations anytime soon." The faunus had made it clear the previous night that she had been dispatched to monitor for bandits, dissidents, or any spillovers from the Russian Civil War. The current calm in the air meant a lot of sitting around, watching, and doing nothing.

"And we've already made headway with ours," Jaune highlighted. "We unmasked you and Adam. We lost him but we found you."

The Ghost raised her brow. "And you want me to cooperate with the SSB?"

Weiss set her chopsticks beside her emptied bowl. "That's the challenge, isn't it? Our guide is dead, our lieutenant is dead, and we are deep in unknown territory with no means of contact with our handler. We had already given up on our objectives and were hoping to reach Vladivostok or the Czechoslovaks on the railway so we could regroup with the Western Allies."

"And here we are," the faunus completed. "Are you still going for Vladivostok or are you going to deal with me?"

The two SSB agents were silent. They shared a glance until Jaune said, "Adam is dangerous as he is. Then we have you. Not to mention two more personalities we've been ordered to track down. We're deep in China, close enough to Peking where our next target is supposedly based." He planted his bowl onto the table with an audible thud. "A part of me wants to put Adam down and keep going."

He met Blake's surprise with resolution.

"He killed a fellow SSB operative. Going by his reputation, he will no doubt keep doing what he's been doing." And with the bullheaded bastard's mentality, things would only get bloodier. Oh, how hard it was to feel pity for the innocents when he had been scarred many times too much by the Great War. Jaune was not entirely heartless, however. "He needs to be stopped."

Weiss nodded. "I agree. Action needs to be taken lest he imbalance any existing political equilibrium."

"Guys..." Blake echoed.

The blonde sergeant shrugged. "We've gotten this far. And plans change."

"So you're going back to your original assignment? You're going to find Adam?"

"And the Anfu Dragon. And the Serpent Monk. Whatever comes next...is up to the SSB to decide."

Blake folded her arms. "What about me? You said I'm on your list. I'm here."

"Are you going anywhere?"

The faunus found it difficult to respond. As she had mentioned, she was put on reserve, watching and waiting for something to happen or for new orders from Tokyo. She had done her job; the Manchurian territories were under the firm control of a cooperative governor. "I don't know. I'm just...waiting on something."

"No plans? No long-term..."

She exhaled. "I... No." Her shoulders sagged. "To be honest, I don't know what I'm doing right now. No Grimm, no White Fang, no faunus...um, other than Adam...but still..."

Jaune leaned in over the table. "If you don't have a reason to keep going, then why are you still here? Working for the Chinese as a clandestine Japanese agent?"

"Because I...I..."

It was his turn to fold his arms. And the accompanying frown was anything but amusing. "Even Adam, who thinks he's the only faunus on this planet, has his reasons for moving forward. I'd say that he had more purpose than you right now."

Both ladies snapped their heads at him, horrified.

Jaune, however, was unfazed. Rather, he was unimpressed. "You're an assassin, a spy, and a scout for two nations. You're a double agent. I don't know you that much and we've never been this close but I know that for all the similarities you share with Adam Taurus right now, you are nothing like him. Tell me, Blake. Do you have sympathies?"

"... Sympathies?"

"Jaune, where are you going with this?" Weiss interjected. To her surprise he shot her down with a quick gesture and repeated his query with more weight in his tone.

"Do you have sympathies?"

Blake would have snapped and slapped him then and there. She was unable to; perhaps, held back by her own convictions. Her faunus ears drooped and she sputtered a weak, "Y-yes."

"The Blake I heard about was a former member of the White Fang who believed in its grassroots ideology. She resorted to what she thought was necessary to do what she believed was right. The Blake I see in front of me right now hasn't changed much from that."

The Ghost jumped to her feet and hissed pathetically. "And how in the world do you think I'm not any different!?"

Weiss stood to pacify her. "Enough!"

Jaune ignored his partner. His tired blue orbs studied the faunus girl seething at him. "You folded to the Japanese's demands to be their lackey. Why?"

She took a while to answer. "... The Kenpeitai was conducting punitive operations against innocent civilians in Korea. 'Suspected partisans,' they called them. They threatened to intensify them if I didn't cooperate." Her fists balled tight enough for her fingernails to dig into her palms. "If I tried to get involved, I'd be facing an entire army and more. If I tried to flee..."

"You'd only be leaving the people to suffer," discerned Fürsten. "Knowing you, you wouldn't stand for that."

"I can't! I've already tried to run! They sent me photographs of the executions; I was chased back into Moukden by militias on their payroll. I had to..." An angry tear trickled down her cheek. "Most of my targets were innocent. Their accusations were baseless! They were targets because they were perceived threats to Tso-lin and his cronies. My handlers...they encouraged it. To protect their holdings, their resources. Damn it, it's much worse than what the faunus had to endure!"

Weiss slipped her arms around her teammate and held tight. "Blake. What's done is done. You've made choices that you regret, you acted on what you thought was for the best. I won't fault you for that."

"I don't blame you. I might've done the same thing," Jaune admitted.

"But I...you haven't seen..."

Sergeant Ionas Arkos rose with his shoulders squared and a firm glint in his eye. "All you've ever seen Blake are the small skirmishes between armies refusing to commit to open battle. Our experiences in the Breach back in Remnant pales in comparison to the scale of what I went through at the Western Front. I won't question what you did here in Manchuria but I can tell that you're lucky you didn't live in a muddy trench, getting shelled for hours on end day after day, to have to run out into No Man's Land as fodder for German machine guns, to have to make friends only to lose them again and again and again."

Blake's jaw was agape, the sympathetic horror drawing out tears to cloud her amber irises. Weiss held onto her, the former heiress disturbed to be reminded of her partner's experiences. "Jaune... I... I'm sorry, I didn't think..."

He waved her off. "It's fine. The Great War's over and I'm getting over it." He gave her a minute yet confident smile. "The point is that while I didn't choose to come here, I grew into it. Because I saw what these mercenaries—these displaced Huntsmen—were doing. Had I been as apathetic as I was on the Western Front, I wouldn't have cared."

The Ghost sat back onto the floor. She saw Jaune pause to give a meaningful look at Weiss.

"Then I was given hope. And a future that I could look forward to." His smile widened. "I started to care, I saw the big picture. The world is pretty fucked up right now. And another Great War isn't going to do anyone any big favors. But if these Huntsmen go unchecked, who knows? Whatever happens here in China could send ripples throughout the world."

Fürstin sat beside her old teammate. "It took one assassination to start the Great War," she added. "That assassination was a ripple effect of years of endemic problems in the Balkans."

"We trained to become protect humanity against the Grimm," he continued. "But it wasn't just the Grimm we had to deal with when we got thrown out there in field, remember? There's nothing worse than a person who's willing to use his smarts, his skills, and all his resources to destroy his neighbor. You should know that by now."

Blake was silent for a full minute before she wiped her face dry. "So you guys...you'll keep going, then. Right?"

Jaune shrugged. "We're already here. We've made progress. Might as well push on to Peking and find the Dragon."

Weiss reached out to clasp her palms. "We understand if you won't be able to come with us—"

"No." The faunus stood up and rummaged through the closet to gather her weapons. "You're right. I have sympathies. I don't care for the factions. It's the people who are caught in the crossfire. Huntsmen don't just protect against Grimm. Huntsmen act to protect. And I've been doing this...so other people can live." She came off with two sets of old robes that were similar to the ones she was wearing. "Besides. You guys need to change into something less obvious."

The two agents beamed. "You're prepared for anything, huh," Jaune mused.

"It's part of the job." The faunus handed them their new clothes and looked away in thought. "You know...I've had this theory for a long time now. I never could really confirm it even with how much I could squeeze out of the grapevine."

The former heiress prodded her. "What is it?"

"The Dragon...I have a theory on who the Dragon might be. It has some holes in it but it feels like the most plausible."

"The SSB would've loved to have you on board," Jäger remarked.

Blake planted her hands on her hips. "Really? How are you going to explain that to my bosses?"

"They won't be your bosses for long," Fürstin declared.

The Ghost smirked as she slipped her katana through her belt sash. "I do hope you have a plan for that."

The blonde sergeant awkwardly scratched the back of his head. "We're working on it."

* * *

Jaune and Weiss stuck close to Blake as they ventured through the Manchurian countryside to the nearby village. The robes and straw hats kept them uniform with the locals, though Weiss nearly made a fit when her own tunic was a little loose around the chest area. Being mostly agricultural, many villagers were out on the rice fields. That left only one possible encounter on the road through the settlement.

"Conscripts," the Ghost whispered. "They're harmless."

"With those guns, they aren't," Jaune quipped.

"Don't do anything drastic," Blake added as they trudged by the idling Feng-t'ien patrol. Unsurprisingly, the squadron stopped them for what seemed to be a routine search, no doubt piqued by the weapons carried in plain view.

Jäger and Fürstin stood nervously. Perhaps they should have not forgone subtlety for practicality knowing how wary these men were. They observed Blake passively absorb the corporal's barking. Then she gave him a slow yet careful crafted response to which he sputtered, backed away, and ordered his subordinates to leave them be.

"Was that your persona at work or is your Mandarin just that better than ours?" Weiss asked when they were out of earshot.

"Both," Blake replied tersely.

"What did you tell them?"

"The usual spiel: mind your own business or else. I have ten different versions."

"His tone was rather...aggressive," Weiss observed.

The faunus frowned. "I can't blame him either. I'd be worried if I saw three foreigners decked out and freely traipsing about."

"Say, have you shown your faunus heritage to anyone around here?" Jaune poised.

The glare she flashed him was a little chilling. "... A few. Don't ask."

"Copy." They passed by a small eatery whose shopkeep reminded him of the old guy who seemed to be running every business in Vale. "We have about a day's worth of rations left. You guys want to have a quick lunch?"

"Sure. I'm paying," Blake offered then approached the bar. Her order was quick and in less than five minutes, the three had seated themselves to generous servings of dumplings and rice cakes.

They ate in silence, aware of the implications of speaking any more English in a place like this, and were about to leave when Blake nearly tumbled over a small boy staring up at her. The two agents were surprised by the sweet-sounding apology that came out of the faunus's mouth. She even had a matching smile that was warm enough to melt ice.

Curiously, they watched the exchange.

The infamous faunus assassin stooped down to a knee, listening to the squeaky words that the boy mumbled. He pointed at her katana. She chuckled and said something that made the child grin and laugh. His mother understandably rushed in, grabbed her son, and profusely rambled apologies to the foreigner.

Normally, Blake would have been too reserved to do what happened next. The faunus beamed brightly and the string of words that followed came off as lively, almost Ruby-esque. The woman's fear gave in to cheer and she gleefully gestured at her to stay in place before setting her son down and rushing into her hut. She came back outside shortly thereafter with a long rolled up scroll bound in a ribbon that handed over.

The Ghost thanked the woman with a courteous bow and returned their gracious waves. When she rejoined the two SSB agents, her mien shifted back to her stoic self. A minute into their walk, she noticed their stares. "... What?"

Jaune lifted his finger at her. "You...you don't normally do that, do you?"

"Do what?"

" _That_ ," Weiss highlighted. "Interacting with the public that way."

Blake shrugged. "So? I can't communicate with the low society? Seriously?"

"No, no. It's that... You've never been that open."

The faunus frowned. "Really? You honestly think I'm that reserved? Guys. Come on. I know I'm an introvert but I can't do my job if I don't assimilate with the locals. Helps to make me less loathed for what I do."

Jaune grunted. "Fair enough. You got them to give you something at least."

Blake held up the scroll. "It's a map. The lady's husband was a retired cartographer who worked for the Germans in Tientsin. He made copies of all the maps he was commissioned."

"And his wife willingly handed it over to a complete stranger?" Weiss pressed incredulously.

The Ghost flashed them a look of pride. "Hearts and minds. I learned it from a French general I read about."

The blonde sergeant did not conceal his disdain. "Really now. Wish we had more of them."

"So the indexes are in German, right?" Weiss harrumphed when she slipped the ribbon free and spread the map. "I'll hold onto it as I'm the only one among us who can actually read it."

Jaune rolled his eyes. "Polyglot."

" _Excuses-moi_ , _Sergent_ Arkos," she rebutted primly. "The Romanov household upholds proficiency in English, Russian, and German. It carried over, especially since Tsaritsa Alexandra is herself of German birth."

"Is she the reason why you have a German codename?" teased the faunus.

The former heiress groaned. "Ugh! For the fifth time, our handler came up with it."

Blake smirked. "Not too creative if you ask me. Team Archangel doesn't sound too bad though."

"It's SSB Unit Erzengel, actually," Jaune added. "I don't mind at all. I don't like Hillard but I agree with his reasoning. I feel bad for the Germans though."

"You fought them."

"I never hated them. Much."

"I have an alternative," Blake offered. " _Dai tenshi_. Implicate the Japanese. They have a lot to loose, more than the Germans or the British or the French."

"What does _dai tenshi_ mean?"

"... Archangel."

Weiss groaned while Jaune snickered.

* * *

Blake spaced the rocks on the corners of the map to keep it from rolling back up. Their campfire was bright enough to illuminate the printed landmarks. Jaune and Weiss pressed against her flanks as they loomed over the details. The latter pressed her finger over a dot beside a broken line that snaked around the lower half of Manchuria.

"This is where we are. Right?" positioned Weiss.

The faunus nodded. "Taking the railway would mean having to go through a lot of military checkpoints. It's too risky but it's fast. Or we could keep going along the backroads, follow a straight line down south."

"Not keen on walking another hundred miles. Can we bluff through the army?" Jaune raised. He glanced at the Ghost. "You're famous. They won't touch an asset of the Old Marshal."

Blake frowned but conceded. "You're not wrong. So we're taking the train?"

The SSB agents nodded.

"Alright. If we reach Moukden, leave everything to me," she instructed sternly. "Governor Tso-lin is as paranoid as his rivals so he'd try to keep me around for as long as possible. Stay out of sight or he'll assume the worst. I'll handle the negotiations."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"That I'm heading south to Dairen to personally deliver a sensitive report to the Japanese. He'll buy it." She traced her finger over the markers to Tientsin. "The city has large territorial concessions to the foreign powers. It's not ironclad safe but you can expect some good protection depending on who you take shelter with. They should have solid cables so you can contact your handler here and maybe get some additional help. Any action here would result in a diplomatic incident and neither the Japanese nor the Chinese won't risk that."

"What if the Kenpeitai wise up to the ruse?" Weiss forwarded. "It says here that the Japanese have a legation here as well."

"Diplomatic immunity."

Jaune sensed the faulty confidence in her tone. "You sure about that?"

Blake mewled, her faunus ears folding over her scalp. "I haven't planned something this big before, okay?"

"All your operations have been small-scale, huh."

"I like to keep it that way."

"Let's just hope Hillard hasn't forgotten about us," Weiss injected. "If not, we can contact the French. I'm sure they wouldn't be happy that their prize fighter has been mishandled like this."

"I'm not a tool, Weiss," groused Jaune. In the back of his mind, he wondered how Causson was doing. His squad in Archangel. Had they finally left Archangel? They better have.

"This Major Hillard," the faunus began. "Is he...ethical?"

"Ethical, my ass," scoffed SSB agent Jäger as he leaned back to sit on the log. "He muscled me into this. Dragged Weiss into it too."

"Excuse me," protested SSB agent Fürstin, "I volunteered."

"Because of _me_."

"Jaune. We've already had this discussion."

"You were snared," finished the Feng-t'ien Ghost. "Hillard doesn't sound too different from Tetsumo."

"Is he a condescending dick, too?"

The disgusted snarl on her face was visible in the firelight. "He tops that. Does Hillard kill innocent civilians to prove a point?"

"No." At least, not to his knowledge. A part of Jaune's brain sometimes wondered if that were ever the case. "If he has, then I'm going to shoot him, court martial be damned."

"I'd stand by you there," Weiss reinforced.

"Of course, you would."

She slapped him playfully on the arm. "Stop pandering, you dolt."

He snickered. "Come on, Snow Angel. Don't you miss the luxury of being a princess again?"

"You're...insufferable," she growled weakly, her pale features flushing bright in the firelight.

A smirk slow stretched between Blake's cheeks. "You know, you two are pretty close." Her sniggers devolved into barely concealed chuckles. "Too close that maybe there's something more..."

"Excuse me!?" shrieked the former heiress. "I'll have you know that Jaune and I have a platonic working relationship! It is mutual and benefits us both."

"Oh? How so?"

Weiss glowered at her. "As far as I am concerned, it is against professional work ethic for SSB operatives to be entangled in unnecessary romantic pursuits unless it would contribute to the fulfillment of the objectives." The smug grin only grew on the faunus's face much to her chagrin. "I refuse to plant any more malicious ideas into your overly salacious brain."

"Spies tend to...satisfy natural physiological desires on long, extended missions," Blake teased. "Besides, you ' _volunteered_ ' when you had every right to stay in North Dakota."

Jaune groaned while his partner seethed. Blake had indeed changed much over the past year she had been here; she almost never teased like this. That and she knew Mandarin and Japanese. "Keeping it professional," he threw back. "Unlike you work alone most of the time."

"I have some help from time to time—not in the way you're thinking—but they know to stay out of my way."

"Yeah. A known assassin with 'supernatural abilities.' I know I'd keep my distance," Jäger remarked.

The Ghost sighed, poking through the firewood to keep the flames going. "Ironic. I didn't want to end up like this."

"None of us wanted to," joined Fürstin. "Circumstance and misfortune forced our hands. We know they were bad decisions but the alternative was much worse. In my case, I risked the lives of the Romanovs and countless others if I didn't comply."

The blonde sergeant grunted. "And I'd be shot. Shot over and over again until I die knowing how thick my Aura is. Or worse. Not like the Germans wouldn't one-up the French with how they treat prisoners and deserters."

"How did they treat deserters in the French Army?" Blake queried. Even Weiss could not conceal her morbid curiosity.

He stared at her morosely. His voice was sullen and his expression distant. "In a lot of frontline courts, the guilty are sometimes thrown out into No Man's Land without a gun. And they stay there until the next offensive. Or until they get shot by either side or blown up by artillery. Or they starve to death. One guy got up, asked both sides to kill him when he was done pissing, then started singing at the top of his lungs until the Germans shot him. To be honest, we wanted to put him down too. Just to shut him up."

His two companions were silent for the next minute or so. Then the Ghost piped, "But you work for the British now. They're at least cordial. Or so I've heard."

"Cordial, yes," the former heiress conceded. "At first, I really hated the choices that got us in this predicament. But now, I have no regrets."

"I missed you too, Weiss," Blake quipped.

"So. Your handler. Tetsumo," Jaune began. "He has intel on the other foreign mercenaries?"

"Some of them. Can't vouch for the accuracy though."

"Does he know about Adam?"

Blake mused silently before answering, "Not as much. The Kenpeitai believe he can be persuaded to serve in the same capacity as me. I thought the Demon was a rogue Huntsman until you guys came along and, well..."

"Are you going to tell them?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know what they're going to do with that information. I don't know if they're going to go through with getting him onboard or have him taken out."

Jaune continued, "What about the Anfu Dragon and the Serpent Monk?"

"The Dragon is based in Peking, policing, suppressing dissent, and has been reported to have participated in frontline skirmishes against the southern armies. I haven't been able to go that far because most of my ops were limited within Manchuria's borders. I have communicated with other agents there and they confirmed about as much."

He nodded. "A front-liner, too, huh? Noted."

"Best intel we have shows that the Dragon is female, dubbed as a 'rowdy vulgar Westerner.' Tetsumo suspects she's either American or British. Probably Australian. Obviously, she uses fire, hence the nickname."

"Could be anyone."

"Her Semblance could be fire-based," Weiss interjected. "Or she's adept at using combustible fuels to augment her potency. Blake, these details strengthen your theory."

Blake pursed her lips. "That Yang could be the Dragon? Can't really say. Even with the scope of our intelligence gathering, it's hard to even consider the possibility that she is."

Jaune gave her a strange look. "Could be Yang, could be some Huntress on Goodwitch's level, or...Cinder."

"Cinder's the Fall Maiden," the faunus corrected. "If she wound up here, either her powers have diminished or she's intentionally holding back."

"Nothing an army can't kill," the blonde sergeant snarled. "That Relic sent you here? It probably displaced her, too."

"I'm not confident about that, Jaune."

The former heiress scrunched her brow. "On the other hand, if your theory checks out, and the Dragon _is_ Yang...how cooperative do you think she'd be if we confronted her?"

The faunus shrugged dejectedly. "I don't know. I've always wondered the same thing. Remember, I got dropped in here around June last year."

"I was at the Marne during that time," Jaune piped distantly. "Weiss was in Yekaterinburg."

"Word only got around about two or three months later," she continued. "That was when I started learning the language. And I picked up on the names that were being thrown around. The Ghost, the Demon, the Dragon, and the Monk."

"You said that you were with Ruby, Qrow, Nora, Ren, and a few others during the confrontation at Haven," the former heiress said. "And after the vault was breached, someone tampered with the Relic and its instability sent out a wave of power."

Blake nodded somberly. She had already related what followed after. Deafening ringing, blinding white light, and then waking up in a stream in the wooded mountains of Heilungkiang.

"The point is that Ozpin corrupted some ancient powerful artifacts to deny Salem their use," Jaune grumbled bitterly. "At the cost of his own students. And everyone else who happened to be in the blast radius." If that was true, then Pyrrha's blood was on him more than it was on Cinder.

"We have a theory that Yang could be the Dragon," Weiss restored. "Adam is the confirmed Demon. That leaves the Monk."

"We'll find out more details when we get to the outpost," the Ghost reminded them. "I'll talk to Tetsumo, get our info, and then jump on the train to Moukden."

"I hope you can convince your handler to release you."

"He won't because that would be against his orders. But he wouldn't say no to an opportunity at a promotion," Blake confidently raised. "He knows how important the Dragon is in limiting Japanese influence over the Beiyang government. He'd see this as a chance to undermine Marshal Chi-jui, make it easier for Governor Tso-lin to press his forces into Peking should they go on the offensive."

"Blake, I admire your planning and your assessments but how sure are you that this whole gambit of yours is going to work?" Weiss pressed.

The Feng-t'ien Ghost exhaled. "Honestly, I'm not so confident."

Jaune placed his hand on her shoulder. "Well, you've got us for Plan B."

Weiss raised her brow. "And what, exactly, is Plan B?"

"I'm still working on it."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 28, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: November 1, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 1, 2018**

 **NOTE: I am not fond of writing exposition. I really tried to shorten the exposition in this one. I have an outline for the whole act but I admit that the hardest part is fleshing out the details, such as character resolve, without ending up with an infodump.**

 **Jaune's recollection of how deserters were treated in the French Army during WWI was inspired by the French 2003 movie _A Very Long Engagement_.**


	34. September 6, 1919

_September 6, 1919_

* * *

SSB agents Jäger and Fürstin sipped their tea in silence behind a food stall across from the walls of the majestic Moukden Palace where the Ghost had been in for what felt like an hour now. The two tried to hide their nervous tics; Jaune incessantly tapped his foot under the table while Weiss repeatedly ran her fingers across her lap.

They had made enough eye contact with half the people around them. It did not help that the many idle soldiers milling were becoming less and less accommodating if their increasingly sour looks were anything to go by.

Jaune leaned into Weiss's ear and mumbled, "I'm getting a really bad feeling right now."

"Not helping," she whispered through grit teeth.

"Sorry. It's just that...Blake's taking a while." And that about two whole armed platoons briskly filed through the gantry. With another hundred or so waiting on reserve in the nearby barracks.

"Give her time."

Jäger sighed. Given the expansive territory of the entire palace, maybe she was still walking around. "I am sweating buckets right now. I hope things don't go south."

"We have been very fortunate so far."

"Yeah, our luck's been holding out so that's good." He emptied his cup and silently declined the vendor's offer for more tea. "I feel though that...we've haven't been in a lot of trouble since..."

"Jaune, for the love of... Don't jinx us," Fürstin growled exasperatedly.

He nodded uneasily. Maybe they were just extraordinarily lucky the past week. Mentioning the obvious probably would break their streak, if such a ridiculous notion ever carried over to Earth. Still, he did feel like voicing a few other things. "Okay, um, look... Are you ready in case things don't work out?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"In case, you know, negotiations break down?"

She gave him a demanding stare. "Jaune, stop being pessimistic. Besides, your back-up plan seems very doable." Her gaze narrowed. "... Right?"

He kept from awkwardly scratching the back of his head, his eyes darting back to the black telecommunication wires that ran from the gutters of the roofs towards the electric poles that dotted the crowded highway streets. "Yeah, it sure is. Yep. _Oui_. Not that many chinks to iron out but Plan B is as solid as a rock—"

A series of rapid, subsequent blasts suddenly rattled the Palace complex. Both agents stood to witness plumes of dust expand rapidly into the sky. Then the foremost gates were flung open with enough force to nearly rip them off their hinges. Blake flew out of the kerfuffle panicked and sweating. The complex was now alight with activity as she bounced off the heads of the responding soldiers and landing in front of the food stall.

"Plan B! Plan B!" she howled as she grabbed Jaune and Weiss.

Both SSB agents barely had time to comprehend the sudden chaos when a bedraggled officer stumbled out of the complex with a katana in one hand and a pistol in the other. He coughed into the back of his wrist, barked several orders to the men surrounding him, and centered his sights on the three with an almost manic, furious grimace.

"Jaune," Weiss prodded, her hand on the hilt of her saber. "Plan B?"

Jaune stammered. So many innocent people were running around, screaming. They would be caught in the crossfire. The many uniformed soldiers scrambled to form ranks. Once again, he glanced up at the cable that could have been used to rally for reinforcements. This had gotten out of hand so quickly. "We can't risk the civilians."

"Jaune, you said you had a Plan B!" Blake hollered, both her blades occupying her hands.

Across the road, Kenpeitai Major Mitsugane Tetsumo closed the gap like a starved wolf. " _Kuso ama_! I was right to never trust you!"

"I am done with you!" the Ghost sneered.

"You know we will retaliate," Tetsumo taunted. "You know what happens to 'traitors' and 'saboteurs.'" A wicked grin. "And 'collaborators."

" _Damare temee_!" she screeched as she kicked up her heels to charge him only for Jaune to grab her shoulder and hold her in place.

Blake furiously whipped her head around to be greeted with the sight of uniformed Chinese conscripts rushing out onto the street from the other gantries and filling up the tops of the walls of the palace complex. There were...too many of them. She began yelling in Mandarin, attempting to sweep the attention of the officers. Except, Tetsumo had a more authoritative voice, winning over full command.

She was bewildered. "What!?"

"They're not listening to you? But you're the Ghost!" Weiss growled. "You hold sway over them!"

"Not anymore," Jaune morosely corrected as a coterie of high-ranking officers emerged out of the mist, one of whom was a bald mustached man padded with epaulettes and sporting lapels that showcased generals' stars. Marshal Chang Tso-lin was still visibly shaken yet managed to level them with a piercing glare as he drew his sword and hollered orders which Tetsumo gladly relayed. Hundreds of guns were cocked around them.

Surrounded on the street, Jaune grabbed both ladies by the arms and reeled them in close. He channeled his Aura into them creating a faint glow around their forms. "Weiss! Put one under us. Now!"

Fürstin did so. The immediately appearance of a spinning spectacle underneath their feet startled the soldiers, some of whom became frightened. Several smaller ones appeared around them, acting as a barrier of sorts.

"Hold on tight," Jäger ordered. He snaked his arms around their waists. "Plan B!"

"This isn't Plan B!" his partner protested, the strain that normally came with maintaining so many glyphs of this caliber allayed by his flowing Aura reserves.

"It is now! Get ready!"

Major Tetsumo pushed through the mess of bodies with his pistol in his grip. He took aim at them.

"Jump!"

The three foreigners leapt high into the air as the plaza lit up in gunfire and smoke.

* * *

Jaune, Weiss, and Blake churned through the uneven underbrush, ducking and weaving to avoid the bullets meant for their heads. Above their heads, the biplane bombers of the Feng-t'ien Air Force desperately unloaded their ordnance all around them. The faunus easily morphed in and out of danger while Weiss darted around while boosting Jaune's every step with her glyphs. The three burst onto the highway, startling the handful of travelers on the road.

"This should lead to a junction up ahead!" the Ghost barked.

"This wasn't how this was supposed to go down," Jaune groused while catching his breath. "Did you at least get our intel?"

Blake patted the satchel bouncing against her hip.

"It better be damn worth it," the blonde growled.

"Shut up and keep up," Weiss admonished, using her glyphs to propel his aching legs forward.

The noise from their pursuers echoed across the valley, the full might of a mobilized division on their heels. At the end of the highway was the railroad crossing. And a uniformed switch operator jolted out of his wits at the sudden arrival of three panting and armed foreigners. The whistle of a locomotive echoed from the north until the engine itself came into view.

Blake snapped to the poor young man manning the junction, his lapels showing him to be nothing more than a draftee. Her voice came out rather harshly when she demanded to know where this line was connected to.

"T-t-tianjin!" he stammered.

" _H_ _ǎ_ _o_!"

"Eh?"

The Feng-t'ien Ghost slapped a pilfered yen banknote onto his palm. " _Xièxiè_!" Then she reached out her hand as the locomotive neared.

"Thank you, good sir!" Weiss bade as she followed Blake's lead.

"Thanks, buddy," Jaune added, swept up along with his two accomplices who had snagged onto the speeding engine and then flipping up to land on the roof. They dropped prone on their belly with the wind blowing in their faces. "Where's this thing headed!?"

"Tientsin!" Blake hollered over the noise.

"Are you sure!?"

"I'm sure!"

The three stood up slowly to witness the pursuing elements of the Feng-t'ien Army disappear over the shrinking skyline of Moukden. The bombers, however, caught up. Blake held the two SSB agents back. "They're not going to risk bombing their own supply line."

For a moment, they waited for the aircraft to circle around and fly back to their lines. Except, they didn't. Much to their horror, they closed in.

"Uh, Blake?"

"No. No! They have to turn back! There are civilians on this train!" the Ghost stammered, drawing up Gambol Shroud.

Then the bombers swooped overhead and jettisoned their cargo. There was little time for Weiss to react. And the few glyphs that she managed to raise were not strong enough to contain the explosions of the bombs that connected. One, unfortunately, bounced off its side and connected with the boiler of the locomotive, triggering a massive explosion. The consecutive blasts forced the railcars off the tracks.

In the span of three seconds, Jaune, Weiss, and Blake saw smoke, fire, sky, and the ground rushing up to meet them.

* * *

Everything was a blur. Her senses were dulled but she could feel pain. Lots of pain. Weiss felt herself grimace at her aching limbs and the feeling of her body being dragged across rough gravel. Someone had grabbed her wrists and was pulling her away from...fire? Fire and smoke. And debris. And...bodies?

"Wha...?"

Yelling. Screaming?

"... Help..." she croaked. Her throat was burning. She tried to lift her hand only to grimace at the pain that suddenly soared up to her shoulder. Did her Aura break? Fires. Lots of them. Thick smoke, too.

"Weiss!" someone echoed.

She looked up to the sky as the sun was eclipsed by Blake's bedraggled form.

"Weiss! Oh gosh, you're okay... Hold on..."

"... Jaune..." Those bodies. Scattered around them. Around the debris of what used to be a passenger train. Where was Jaune? Was he hurt? "...where?"

Blake's voice grew more and more distant. Her hand was on her side and she was...bleeding? Her Aura must have cracked when they were bombed. "We need to get you out of here before they—oh no..."

Suddenly, shapes emerged through the smoke. Yelling. Voices. Blake pleading. Weiss turned her head to see someone...aglow and holding up an entire flipped railcar over his head as the wounded passengers below him scrambled away.

"... Jaune?" She reached out. "... H-help..."

"... _D_ _é_ _d_ _à_ _o t_ _ā_!"

The next thing she saw were muddy boots crowding around her vision. Followed immediately by the stock of a rifle connecting with her face.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 28, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: November 12, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 12, 2018**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Kuso ama**_ **! = Fucking bitch! [Japanese]**

 _ **Damare temee**_ **! = Shut the fuck up! [Japanese]**

 ** _H_ _ǎ_ _o_! … _Xièxiè_! = Good! … Thank you! [Chinese]**

 ** _D_ _é_ _d_ _à_ _o t_ _ā_! = Get her! [Chinese]**


	35. September 7, 1919

_September 7, 1919_

* * *

Pain. Lots of pain. That was what woke Weiss up. She grimaced and groaned until her body was subjected to a sudden wave of wet and cold. The electrifying euphoria jolted her awake so she could see her tormentors, one of whom set down a now empty bucket as water trickled from her scalp down her cheeks until eventually dripping off her toes.

That was when she realized the distance she had from the puddle on the floor.

"You are awake," greeted a Chinese officer, a colonel judging by the lapels on his shoulder. "Good."

Weiss tried to speak only to come off with wheezes and coughs. She shuddered amid the discomfort of being suspended by her arms.

"You are resilient. Fitting for a spy for Ta-shuai, no?"

A spy? What in the world is— She struggled against her restraints only to end up constricting the blood flow in her hands. Her Aura had to be...her Aura had to have been exhausted if she were experiencing this much discomfort. Fear crept up her spine and she had to suppress the quivering of her lips to at least deny her captors the luxury of her distress.

Wait. Jaune and Blake! Where were they? What happened? Were they captured? What had they done to them? So many questions swirled in her fogged mind and the more she took in her surroundings, the more panicked she became at the many prospects of torture her two closest friends might have endured. Or was enduring. Or rather what they were going to put her through to get what they want.

Once again, she tried to speak. "... W-who are y-you?"

"I ask you the same," her interrogator rebutted.

Weiss grit her teeth. "Who are you? Where am I?"

The man shook his head as he gestured at his subordinate. Again, Weiss was drenched in another bucketload of freezing water. Even for an Atlesian, such treatment was cruel.

"Again, I ask you the same."

She shivered. Her Aura flickered. Not good. She tried to activate her Semblance. Her wrists ached though her fingers were not entirely numb so maybe if she could wriggle a bit, she might just be able to...

Someone suddenly whipped the back of her arms with a stick. Weiss shrieked from the debilitating pain that thundered down to her shoulders. She angled her head away only for her eyes to land upon the table pushed up against the wall upon which were arrayed an assortment of rusty metal tools.

"Your accomplices have not been very cooperative," the man began.

The former heiress felt her breath hitch in her throat. Accomplices? Jaune? Blake? What did they do to them!? "W-where are they?"

"Recovering. Like you. I must admit. It is a big blessing to us that we now have deprived Ta-shuai of his most prized possession."

What was he talking about? What prized possession? Who was he babbling on about? "Where are my friends?"

"Your friends? Oh. So you are tourists, no?" Her interrogator flashed her a dangerous grin. "Why then do you have weapons instead of journals or postcards or...tickets for the train?"

If only she could muster enough to project a glyph... "S-self defense. It's...dangerous to t-travel..."

A condescending chuckle. "I have heard better excuses."

She grit her teeth. "What do you want?"

"Honesty. I am your only friend now. Remember that. There is no use in lying."

"What do I have to lie to you about?" she seethed.

The officer appeared tickled. "What do you have to lose?"

Weiss felt her blood run cold. Was she actually going to experience the harrowing tortures that she had, until now, been spared from? She was straining to draw on her Aura—anything to numb some of the agony they would inflict upon her. Had she been so weakened that her own reserves were drained? Or did they do something to her while she was out? It was downright terrifying how helpless and vulnerable she was and it...

She gulped. Her emotions at this moment would have attracted a horde of Grimm.

Her interrogator issued something to his aides. A minute later, the door to their chamber swung open and three soldiers muscled in a very bruised and bleeding Blake Belladonna. The faunus was panting heavily when she was tossed onto the floor with her hands bound behind her back. Weiss managed a low growl. These bastards had beaten her teammate until her Aura cracked.

"She was very resilient," the officer continued. "She had this...magic power protecting her. But much like the trinkets of the past, they cannot do not last forever." He held up a necklace with a wooden carving of a Chinese character.

Weiss dubiously eyed Blake on the floor. Did she really convince the Chinese that...?

"Very interesting." He stood and proceeded to caress her faunus ears, eliciting a discomforting groan. "And these...strange appendages. I never thought the creatures from my childhood stories actually existed. To think I almost cut them off."

"... Don't touch her!" the former heiress shrieked weakly.

Blake coughed as the officer pulled her up by her hair, her slow-healing cuts exposed under the dim lamplight. "Weiss..."

"Weiss? That is your name? Yes, yes, very interesting." He released his grip and pulled up a stool to sit in front of the suspended young woman. "I have heard of that name before. In a Western newspaper...about the troubles in Russia."

Weiss could barely hold in her rising panic. She let out a soft scream. "What do you want!"

The interrogator studied her for a while. "... I want to know. Why are you here, Schnee _fūrén_?"

Blake heaved out, "Don't...tell them...anything..."

A gesture from the officer resulted in one of the soldiers violently whipping her in the back of the head with his pistol. Blake's agonized whelp drew tears from both girls.

"Why would someone who fled with the Romanov family come here? Are you not happy with your home in America?"

Weiss hissed. "You don't know me."

"Make this easy on yourselves. Answer me honestly and you will be released with no more problems."

It was a clear lie. They had both absorbed the blunt of the bombing, leaving them with little Aura. Blake's remaining reserves were depleted by the beatings that she could barely use her Semblance, let alone move her head. It would only be a matter of time before they would do the same to her. Weiss knew there was only so much she could do with her glyphs. She grit her teeth, knowing that trying to cause a scene would only come at the cost of her old teammate. "... I..."

"Weiss," the faunus pleaded. "...don't..."

Again, the soldiers rained down fists and kicks on the faunus. Weiss begged for it to cease. "Stop! Just...stop, please..."

Blake's taxed breathing echoed throughout the damp room. The interrogator dropped his hand as he folded his legs and sat back down on his stool to listen.

The former heiress took a few deep breaths. "... You won't get anything...useful...from us. We...have nothing relevant...to say. You're wasting...your time."

"That is the case then? Then it is so." He stood and reached for a scalpel. Was it a scalpel? More like a chopped-down machete. He pressed it against her bare neck to which she stiffened. "You have a lovely face. Lovely white skin. A shame it is blemished by this scar on your eye."

Blake choked out a scream while Weiss let out a strangled cry. The blade edged against her throat. Then stopped before she could feel so much as a cut.

"You have nothing to say?" the officer taunted. "Then you do not need your voice."

"N-no, s-s-stop," she heaved.

"Your friend here. She lasted nine cuts before we discovered her magical protection. _Z_ _hēn qì rén_. That was cheating. So beat her until her magic stopped. And we started again." He stomped on the necklace, crushing it under the heel of his boot. The fool genuinely believed the lie Blake told them to cover their Aura. "No trinkets. No ornaments. As you can see."

The blade danced around her face before once again landing on the nape of her neck.

"We can begin with the first cut, Weiss. Remember. All I want is honesty."

Before Weiss could say a word, however, a private ran up from the hallway and snapped at attention in the doorway barking something that made the officer and the other troops around them tense slightly. She caught the hints of annoyance manifesting in the corner of the man's jaw. Another rapid exchange in Mandarin which Blake seemed to follow.

The officer sighed vexedly. He hesitantly issued some orders at his aides. Then the rope above her head was cut and she fell gracelessly onto the floor, her wrists still bound in a knot.

As she was dragged up to her feet, she felt the glare of her interrogator bore into her skull. "You are lucky you are this important. Perhaps, when you are unfortunate and you might insult Zhiquan _huīxià_ , I will see you again here."

Weiss could only bare her teeth at him, out of both fear and anger. She was pulled towards Blake and, despite the pain in her still bound wrists, she managed to help hoist the faunus up.

"... I told you," the Ghost wheezed, "don't...say a thing..."

"You should stop tempting fate," the SSB agent chastised. "Where's Jaune?"

"I don't know...I haven't seen him since..."

"Your friend is being taken care of," interjected the officer. He flashed them a wolfish grin. "Do not worry. He is no worse than you are."

If looks could kill, everyone around them would have painted the walls. Alas, Weiss endured helping her friend through the basement of the prison until they reached the main floor where they were carelessly shoved into a waiting car. Only then did both realize they were not in Feng-t'ien province anymore. Nor were they in Tientsin.

Weiss held tightly onto Blake's hands as their vehicle drove through the outer gantry of the Forbidden City in the dead of night.

* * *

Sergeant Ionas Arkos blindly put one foot in front of the other until his heels began clicking against cobblestone instead of crunching gravel. He had endured hours of round-the-clock beatings and ignored the incessant questioning long enough to be dragged out of the dungeon he had been in for...how long was it? And where they taking him? He had no idea before this stinking sack was yanked off his head.

His senses were dull and his body hurt. But he was still in tact when they reared him in to wherever this place was. It was hard to tell as his vision was limited to the thread pressed up against his forehead. He wiggled his fingers and tried to channel some of his remaining Aura into his wrists to numb the burning from the rope that was used to tie him up.

Eventually, he felt the cool breeze of open air. He was outside. He could hear a car whirring. He got in it. Then rode in the dark for a while being pulled out, prodded forward, and...were those doors massive that they echoed like that when they were pushed open?

Was he in some kind of hall or someth—

"Jaune!"

He opened his mouth and the bag was ripped from his head.

"Oh gosh, Jaune!" Weiss cried out, herself a filthy, bedraggled mess. Blake, however, was much worse. Both had their arms bound in rope and were flanked by a dozen guards.

"Weiss! Blake!" he stuttered as he shambled towards them. The splotches of blood smeared over Weiss's tattered robes as well as the wounds Blake had all over her... Sweet merciful divines, he was going to _murder_ whoever did this to them! He pushed against the bindings on his arms, ravenously yearning to rip apart the Chinese army. He had barely crossed the threshold of this palatial hall when he was intercepted by more guards. "Get off me!"

It seemed like an entire company had swarmed in, tackling him to the ground and keeping him separated from his two friends. He thrashed—kicking, screaming, and threatening to kill every single bastard in this hall. Slowly, he began to feel the glow of his Aura accumulating in his fingertips. He itched to exploit what little he had recovered to break them all free.

" _Zúgòule_!"

Everything stopped. Jaune was forced onto his knees, glaring at the man whose voice echoed against the ornate walls. His authoritative glower bore into them and even unto his own soldiers who fidgeted even as they stood at attention. Going by first impressions, Beiyang Marshal Tuan Chi-jui was imposing. The air around him was as thick as the authority he wielded.

The asshole of a colonel who had overseen the beatings approached his superior, saluted, and delivered his quick report. The marshal nodded as he stopped in front of the restrained blonde. Jaune could feel his heart pounding faster and faster until the most powerful man in China stooped low to meet him level; deep blue met charred brown.

Chi-jui wore a dangerous smile. "Hello, Sergeant Ionas Arkos."

* * *

Weiss glanced at Blake who appeared to share her shock. Marshal Tuan Chi-jui of the Beiyang Government of what had once been the Chinese Empire personally summoned them. The head of state himself wanted answers.

"I am intrigued that a close acquaintance of the House of Romanov would trespass into China," rambled the autocrat after getting nothing in response from Jaune. "Fleeing from the Russians? Or perhaps looking for work?"

The former heiress had no idea what to say. The words died in her throat and she felt her blood drain from her head when the man turned to her.

"I want to know why you, Schnee _fūrén_ , have chosen to cause trouble in our domain. You have made alliance with the _Feng-t'ien-gu_ _ǐ_." He paused. It was suffocating. "Yet...you are fleeing from Ta-shuai. Why is that?"

Weiss opened her mouth. The only sound that came out was a cracked heave.

The most powerful man in China bore into her with such an intense gaze that she almost thought it could induce a heart attack. "I am being very lenient with you. You can tell me the truth. Or you will be returned to the north."

That wasn't good. That was actually very bad. Very, very bad. Weiss glanced at Blake who glanced at Jaune. Surrounding them was an entire regiment of troops. Fighting their way out in the state they were in, much less getting out of their bindings, was out of the question. Their Auras were nearly depleted. That meant weaker Semblances—if they were able to even draw upon them. The former heiress fell back on a failsafe; she tried to negotiate. "There was a misunderstanding."

Chi-jui raised his brow. It seemed he was not expecting that kind of answer. Or any answer at all. "Misunderstanding? How so?"

Come on, Weiss. Think! You're a businessman's daughter, you should be able to parley your way out of this. "A breakdown in communication. There were some things that were...not understood properly and...it led to an unfortunate chain of events that led us to this point."

The man before her nodded. "Tell me then. What were these unfortunate events? You were fleeing to Tianjin. You are Europeans. There is a very strong European presence there."

"We're foreign nationals," Weiss argued, finding something to stand her ground with. "Naturally, we sought shelter among fellow foreigners."

"That does not answer my wondering of why you are here."

Damn. She had nothing solid on that.

The marshal continued, "You cannot be tourists. You have weapons."

Weiss resisted a guilty grimace. Though she did hear Blake huff. Jaune, on the other hand. She saw him glowering fiercely at the man.

"You are carrying important papers and you travel to Tianjin where there are many foreigners. Yet Ta-shuai bombed his own trains to stop you." Chi-jui folded his arms as his gaze deepened into a steely glower. "He has begun mobilizing his troops. I cannot let this stand. So I mobilize. And the other commanders mobilize. Soon, all of China will be up in arms. Against each other. Again! Because of _meddling foreigners_!"

Weiss shrunk back. Never had she thought the marshal to be this powerfully intimidating. Yet as the echo of his voice faded off the walls, she could feel the damnation.

"And you say...it is all misunderstanding?"

"Of course, it is," Jaune barked from across the hall, his guards responding by roughly dropping him to his knees.

Chi-jui turned around. "Ah, Sergeant Ionas Arkos. Are you more honest than your friends?"

* * *

Honesty. Yeah, sure. Jaune glazed over the man's shoulder to Weiss and Blake. Say the wrong thing and they would all be sent back to their cells as prisoners. Or worse: turned over to Marshal Tso-lin. Which would probably lead to being turned over to the Japanese by way of Major Tetsumo.

Something in him twisted tightly like coiled rope until it snapped. He had not been thinking properly—perhaps it was the exhaustion or the effect of the hunger and the abuse—when his mouth began sprouting acid.

"You're not going to appreciate my honesty," he heard himself say. "Because the Japanese didn't."

Chi-jui narrowed his eyes.

Jaune, by then, let his mind work its tactic. "You're right, sir. We're not tourists. We're actually spies."

* * *

Weiss was stunned. No. Jaune could not possibly be willing to fold like this! "Jaune, what are you—"

SSB agent Jäger ignored her as he went on. "Y'know, we've learned a lot since we got here. Secret deals, blackmail, assassinations. Even your precious Anfu Dragon—we know who she is, what she can do, and her weaknesses as well."

SSB agent Fürstin was confused. Where was he going with this? They only had a working theory on the Dragon's identity and barely anything else outside of that. Unless...

She craned her head to the side where Blake was forcefully kept on her knees by her guards. The faunus's mien was indiscernible with the bruises and the cuts but the former heiress knew her old teammate to know that she was catching on the ruse Jaune was building up.

"You cannot know such things!" decried the colonel who oversaw their interrogation. Similar protests of denial erupted from some of the men around them albeit in Chinese. The Marshal silenced them with a raised fist and prodded him to continue.

"Sorry, Weiss, Blake," Jaune apologized. "But it's either this or the doghouse."

Weiss carefully feigned betrayal. In her head, she hoped her (dear) friend knew what he was doing.

* * *

"Armies are hard to raise what with the times, y'know," Jaune continued. "So you spare your cards by committing mercenaries. Fighters with vital experience spilling over from Russia. Great War veterans like myself traveling all the way from Europe looking for work. You'd rather commit them than waste potentially irreplaceable losses."

"Who are you to speak like a general!?" hollered Colonel Asshole to which Chi-jui sternly ordered him to shut up.

The blonde sergeant let his smirk extend to his ears. "Your Anfu Dragon was one such person. A talented combatant with skills that are...mythical. Supernatural, you could say. She's a beast with her fists. Piss her off though..." He let out a prideful huff. "She won't hold back. Especially when you mess with her hair."

The marshal, the colonel, and every other person around them who could understand English could not hide their surprise.

That was all Jaune needed to see to boost his confidence. "Yang Xiao Long. Blonde, rowdy, one-armed."

"... You know her?" choked a less authoritative Chi-jui.

"Well, why do you think Marshal Tso-lin would risk so much to kill us? His only shot at taking out your trump card flying out the window like that." He chuckled. "The Japanese would be willing to deny us because we've done our part. We're like you. A tool used to further their goals. To keep driving the wedge deeper and deeper until you're all easy piecemeal pickings."

"That cannot be!" the fearsome leader fearfully declared.

Jaune grinned. Time to step up his bullshit. "Oh, but isn't that the reason why the Kenpeitai ignored us when we were running for our lives? We know who your Anfu Dragon really is. And your other hired help. We know more than what your own spies could gather in a lifetime. We can sell the information to the Western powers in exchange for asylum. Or we can use all this insider knowledge to help you. Get rid of us and you'll screw yourselves big."

It could have been exhaustion but Jaune had been through enough to see clearly that Chi-jui was trembling. He had them now. Hook.

"Major Mitsugane Tetsumo is our handler. Our call sign is _Dai Tenshi_." He heard Blake sputter like a fish out of water. It was her idea, after all: (falsely) implicate the Japanese. "He's Kenpeitai, based in Moukden. He's half the reason Governor Tso-lin isn't playing nice. There's more too. Take a second look at the papers you took from us."

Line. The surrounding Chinese officers who could understand English were freezing up.

"The Japanese don't give away help unless they get something out of it. They'll keep coming back demanding for reimbursement until you're dried up. Which isn't a really good thing if you're running an army this big."

Sinker. If the tenseness in the atmosphere was a mist, it would be hard to see past three feet.

"You've got three Kenpeitai spies with field experience, vital skill sets, and a lot of damning information. Our job was to take away your trump card. Bring the Dragon over to the Japanese. And the Serpent Monk. And even the Demon of Mongolia, too, if we could." Jaune breathed deep. He had been winging it so far and got lucky. "Because sooner or later, the Japanese would come knocking on your doorstep with their whole war machine ready to—"

"Stop!"

Jaune felt his muscles itching from how wide his leer had stretched. He broke off from his staring contest with the Beiyang leadership and found Weiss and Blake gawking sharply at him, subtly impressed at the ruse he had woven. A ruse that these heads of state were falling for. He exhaled, feeling a wave of relief after pulling all that crap out of his ass. In the hopes of buying them time to recover enough so they could escape.

Unfortunately, he was unprepared for the Chinese response. After an obnoxious round of deliberations, Marshal Tuan Chi-jui barked something to Colonel Asshole. The subordinate hastily carried through with it, disappearing back into the midnight darkness outside.

The blonde sergeant harrumphed. "What now?"

"You claim to know Xiao Long _fūrén_?" Chi-jui dictated. "Then we shall ask her herself to see if this is all true."

It was then that Jaune realized his bluff may have been too effective. They were going to summon the Dragon. They were going to get Yang. He numbly crossed his fingers, hoping that the fiery blonde of what had once been team RWBY would recognize them. Favorably.

He turned his head to Weiss and Blake, reading the uncertainty they gave off. He wanted to apologize for how badly he may have screwed this up. Chi-jui issued more orders and the three of them were dragged away to await the Anfu Dragon.

* * *

They were corralled into an empty room not too far from the main hall with a full contingent of guards outside their door. At least they were together. Despite the rope digging into his wrists, Jaune reached over to cup Weiss's hands.

"Hey...hey..."

"I can't believe you," she muttered under her breath.

He winced. Not at his skin burning but at the potential hurt that would come. Oddly, she did not pull away from him. "I'm sorry... I don't know what...it just...I just thought of it and I..."

"No. You did what you had to do," Weiss reaffirmed, raising her head to meet his. She withdrew and scrambled to gather Blake who was still too weak to stand on her own. "Blake had the right idea. You had the right words to say."

Jaune exhaled in relief. He was expecting worse. He weaseled over to help the cat faunus recline comfortably against the wall. "Son of a bitch, they roughed you up."

"You don't say," Blake mumbled. "That was...pretty smart."

"I got it from you," the blonde sergeant admitted.

"Could've gone better, I suppose," the faunus said. She grimaced before expressing her thoughts. "So Yang _is_ the Dragon, huh."

"Sounds a lot like it," Weiss reciprocated. "You saw their reactions. They knew how sensitive she was about her hair."

Jaune settled on Blake's right while Weiss covered her left. "How much do you think she might've changed?"

The Feng-t'ien Ghost sighed. "It's been a long time... I can't really say now..."

"We wait then," the former heiress concluded. She placed both of her bound hands on top of Blake's which was then covered by Jaune's. A faint curve edged on the corner of her lips. Hope. "We've come this far. Savor the calm before the storm, right?"

A warm energy began surging into their hands, astonishing the two ladies. Jaune shushed them. "Aura amplification. I still have reserves. You two look like you need them more than me."

Weiss and Blake beamed back at him, some of the latter's wounds slowly healing up under the glow of his shared Aura.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 5, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: November 20, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: November 20, 2018**

 **NOTE: Weiss was supposed to be subjected to the parilla torture method until I found out that it came around in the 1970s. Then I changed it to water-boarding. Then I thought that that would be too much so I settled for something less.**

 **Next chapter enters the Dragon.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Zhēn qì rén_. = How annoying. [Chinese]**

 ** _Huīxià_ = Sir [Chinese honorific used to refer to generals or military officers]**

 ** _Zúgòule_! = Enough! [Chinese]**

 ** _Fūrén_ = Chinese honorific for women of high rank/nobility**

 ** _Feng-t'ien-gu_ _ǐ_ = Fengtian Ghost [Chinese]**


	36. September 8, 1919, Morning to Midday

_September 8, 1919 – Morning to Midday_

* * *

It was past dawn when Sergeant Ionas Arkos, Lady Weiss Schnee, and Miss Blake Belladonna, captives of the Beiyang government, were shaken out of their dreamless sleep and dragged back out into the main hall, this time occupied by a full honor guard of uniformed troops standing at attention on both flanks.

Jaune could see they were not taking any chances. That meant they knew very well the prowess of their pawn—no, Yang was more than a pawn. She was a capable Huntress who could deal serious damage when provoked. Of course, they were ignorant of the whole warrior-from-another-world thing but the gist of her combative capabilities carried over anyway.

Even in a vast enclosed space, the silence was stiff enough to allow the voice of Marshal Chi-jui to echo over them. He was talking to someone. This someone was adorned in a long coat with a wild mane of golden hair flowing down her back...

"Here they are," the marshal announced.

The Anfu Dragon turned around. Lilac eyes widened. Crossed arms came unfolded. Her jaw dropped while her legs nearly betrayed her.

SSB agent Jäger swallowed the lump in his throat. "... Uh, hey there."

Yang Xiao Long was absolutely thunderstruck. Her round face was contorted in dumbfounded shock. Layers of bandages were wrapped completely around her right hand. A mechanical hand attached to a mechanical arm, no doubt, as Blake recounted.

"... Yang," he heard Weiss breathe. "It's...it's really you."

"I knew it," echoed Blake.

It was surreal how the soldiers in the hall were rigid in fearful attention, reflecting the influence and authority carried by her name. Fitting for the most feared and revered fighter this side of the Far East. Yet the person in question was literally shaking in the knees.

Soon after, Chi-jui's voice echoed powerfully. "Xiao Long _fūrén_! Do you know these people?"

Jaune was forced onto his knees along with Weiss and Blake by their guards, their hands by now numb from the rope. A soldier gripped a tuft of his hair and yanked, forcing him to level Yang with his own face, the scar from the Bolshevik marksman a year ago now on full display to Ruby's maimed half-sister. He could hear his two companions grunt as they were made to do the same.

To the surprise of almost every one, Yang stuttered. The expression of pure bewilderment never left her face and while she managed to regain control of her footing, the trembling in her knees transferred to her fingers.

The moment was tense and silent. Chi-jui repeated more gently. "Xiao Long _fūrén_. These three people claim to know you. Do you know them?"

Blue orbs met purple gems. Yang swallowed. Then choked out, "N-no."

What!? Yang! Come on! Jaune nearly screamed. Yeah, he had not shaved in a month; sure, he had this ugly mark on his forehead; he knew they had changed over the past couple years but they were still the same people! Who else would have natural white hair or genuine cat ears!?

Chi-jui hummed. "Pardon. I did not hear you. Please repeat yourself."

Yang closed her eyes and breathed deep. "I...d-don't know...these people."

Every word was like a blade that ripped at his chest. His lips hung loose akin to a fish out of water. Glancing back at his accomplices, he could read traces of hurt on their faces. Were they so vastly different that Yang Xiao Long herself could barely recognize them? Or was there more? Was she in denial as much as Blake initially was? Was she trying to save her own hide? Did she think they were...

"But they are familiar," the Anfu Dragon rebounded. Her fists tightened. "They are very familiar."

"Ah. So they appear similar to people you know?"

"Yes. They do."

Jaune tried to read Yang. Confusion gave way to something there. Her gaze burned without her feared red irises. Was she angry or...? Agitated? For what reason was she giving them that dirty look?

"In fact, I think I actually do know who these people are."

"They claim to know you personally," the Beiyang marshal intoned.

"I'm sure they do," the Dragon replied slowly. "In fact, they should know who I am. Am I right?Sergeant Arkos? Lady Schnee?"

The two SSB agents felt their eyes bug out of their sockets. She knew their names? How!?

Yang pointed sharply at Blake. "And you. Belladonna. Ghost of Mukden."

"Playing games, Yang?" the Ghost huffed.

"Shut up." The Dragon faced her superior. "Where'd you get them, boss?"

Chi-jui made a gesture and the colonel stepped forward. He bowed reverently before issuing his report. "We found them when we responded to an attack on the railway. The train was bound for Tianjin and had already crossed the provincial border. They were carrying weapons and important papers—"

She waved him off. "Uh-huh."

Yang strolled towards the three captives with a hand on her hip. Jaune smiled weakly when she she regarded them, studied them...analyzed them. He traced where her pupils went. His beard, Weiss's scar, Blake's ears. There was a flash of anger when Yang got a closer look at her old partner—the bruises and cuts were still healing.

He heard Weiss choke a little before speaking up. "... Yang. It's...it's me... You remember me, don't you?"

* * *

Yang slowed. Her gold mane shifted and her gaze fell upon the former heiress.

"... Yeah. I think I do," she answered neutrally.

Weiss internally pleaded for some sanity to this madness. This was her teammate. Ruby's sister! Surely she may not have forgotten about her? Yang supposedly fought viciously at Haven for her sake, this girl stood by Blake's side until...well...until the Relic under the academy...

"Yo, boss!" Yang barked over her shoulder.

Marshal Chi-jui let out a strained grumble. He probably despised her lack of respect given his position in the Chinese political hierarchy. "Yes?"

"What're you gonna do with 'em?"

"Have them imprisoned, of course. They are spies and trespassers."

" _Former_ spies and trespassers, you mean," Yang pointed out.

Weiss clammed up. Where was she going with this?

"Technically, they're rogues. Free agents. Extra muscle." The Anfu Dragon grinned. "Potential mercenaries."

The Beiyang marshal scoffed. "Xiao Long _fūrén_! You cannot be serious!"

"Think about it. You say they survived getting bombed to pieces. Your flunky here"—she flicked a thumb at the mildly insulted colonel—"said they found this guy"—and a finger at Jaune—"holding up ten tons of train wreck over his head with his bare hands. Glowing like a light, too. Not to mention the injuries they suffered in the crash was supposed to have killed them. Pretty impressive, don't you think?" She smirked. "Kind of like me."

The moment passed quietly. Then Chi-jui asked, "Are you saying you are the same as them? You have...abilities. And they have also?"

"Why do you think they're still alive after all the shit they've been through?" Her grin took on a slightly menacing glint. "And the shit you threw at them?"

The colonel nearly backpedaled. "We had to know for sure! You know how we must gather information, Xiao Long _fūrén_!"

Yang rolled her eyes as she folded her arms. Or rather, her real arm with her mechanical one. "Right. Look, I get it. You gotta do what you gotta do. But these people here... They're potential. They're...useful."

Weiss raised her brow. What kind of vocabulary was Yang using now? Was she regarding them as tools? Seriously!?

"How useful?" inquired Chi-jui.

"You need help with the south, right? And the Ma boys over west," the Dragon listed. "Of course, your old buddy Ta-shuai's been messing around up north and you don't want that. Probably has a screw lose in his head. I mean he blew up his own railroad, am I right? Plus I heard your little escapade in Mongolia isn't turning out too well. My professional opinion? You're going to need all the help you can get. You've got the Ghost practically _defecting_. Plus me, we could work it out."

Wait. Was Yang trying to...? Weiss blinked to catch Blake gawking at her old partner. Her ears folding showed enough emotion. Jaune, on the other hand, caught on with a knowing smirk growing at the edge of his lips.

Chi-jui stroked his beard. "That is...a tedious suggestion."

"Boss, you don't have to worry about them. If they step out of line, I'll take care of it." She tapped her knuckles together with her signature cocky grin. "You know me."

Weiss waited with baited breathe as the marshal receded behind his advisers to engage in a hushed debate. Amid the echoes, Yang turned on her heels and approached her. She leaned down close enough to make the former heiress ease back.

"Uh, Yang?" Weiss squeezed out. "Personal space?"

The Dragon withdrew silently. Then turned to Blake. Again, she leaned in close, her scrutiny mixing in with hints of anger.

The cat faunus gulped. "... What is it?"

"Nothing," Yang tersely replied. Lastly, she focused on Jaune. Notably, his unkempt facial hair and the ugly scar that run up his forehead. "... You fought in the Great War. Right, sergeant?"

"Seen more than I needed to if that's what you're asking," he replied coolly.

"Xiao Long _fūrén_ ," declared Chi-jui. "These prisoners will be released into your custody. I trust you will shape their loyalties."

Yang raised a confident fist. A shakily confident fist. "You bet your ass I will, boss-man."

Weiss found it hard to breathe a sigh of relief at that. True, Yang had somehow backed up their claim and surprisingly negotiated a pardon of some sort. However, it was clear that the Dragon herself was trudging on fresh coals. The marshal then adjourned the session and they were pulled back up to stand.

"Bring them to the Legation Quarter," Yang barked to the colonel. "And be careful."

Weiss grunted in pain when she was squeezed alongside Jaune and Blake to be paraded to the ornate double doors and out onto the cobbled grounds of the Forbidden Palace.

* * *

Bathed in orange light, the vast open yard was mesmerizing, the architecture reminding Weiss of her childhood vacations in Mistral. The sound of boots marching snapped her out of her reverie. The open grounds were soon occupied by the soldiers mustering out of the hall and other facilities across the complex. It all was so eerily homely in a sense.

"Just like Archangel," she heard Jaune mutter behind her.

She turned around. He had that look. That distant look. As he regarded the men mustering into formation, marching and running drills, the five colors of the Beiyang government flying overhead. It was a display as much as it was a training regimen. "Jaune?"

"I wonder how the boys are doing," he remarked offhandedly.

She reached over and took his hands in hers. "They're fine. They're doing well."

He shook his head. "We don't know that."

"Well, we can always hope," she chastised, squeezing his palms.

Yang's voice registered amid the strings of Mandarin being thrown about. "Untie them."

Finally! Weiss was awash with relief at restoring the use of her hands. She rubbed her wrists, feeling around the burn marks and the letting the blood flow back into her extremities. She nodded at the Dragon alongside Jaune and Blake who were also relieved at being freed of their bindings. "Thanks, Yang."

Either Yang didn't hear her or she chose not to reciprocate. Regardless, they were ushered into separate taxis, accompanied by two guards each, and driven outside through the streets of Peking.

Morning crowds parted and the occupants of the convoy of vehicles took in the sights of the capital of the Beiyang Republic. Their drivers followed this canal that snaked up to the railroad station. Beyond it were massive stone walls built with hints of European influence. Market vendors and stalls were stretched across from it.

To the former heiress, it was akin to a time capsule, a glimpse into what Mistral would have been like prior to Remnant's own Great War. Their tour was quick and the vehicles were heralded through the gates and into neater streets with tidier houses, some with clear European architecture. Almost immediately, she caught the flags of many foreign nations flying overhead. Her heart nearly leapt into her chest.

This was the Legation Quarter of Peking: the bastion of foreign power with congregations of diplomats, tourists, and expatriates. They would be able to contact the SSB!

This was an amazing development. Yang was helping them!

The taxi parked in front of an enclosed lot with Yang stepping outside and the sentries manning the gantry saluting her. Then she herself was ushered out. Jaune and Blake joined her as they were beckoned to follow the Dragon into her...personal mansion.

Well, to Weiss it had the characteristics of a mansion despite being dwarfed in space and aesthetic by the other establishments in this district.

"Does she own this place?" she heard Jaune wonder aloud.

"If she does, then that speaks volumes of how different the Chinese and the Japanese are," Blake accorded.

"I take it you were not financed as much as Yang was," Weiss posited.

The cat faunus shrugged. "I never complained about my paycheck."

"Get in here!" Yang barked from the porch. She looked over to the soldiers milling about in her front garden and barked something in accented Mandarin. The men saluted and disappeared out into the street followed immediately by the cars outside revving up and fading away.

The interior itself was modest. And clean. Upon crossing the threshold, the three guests were welcomed by a handful of servants. It was odd. Witnessing Yang of all people with her own household staff, living a near aristocratic lifestyle in the Orient. Then again, she was on a warlord's payroll. And warlords like Marshal Chi-jui tended to be quite liberal with their wealth.

The Dragon made a few phrases in Mandarin, the tone of which drained the color from their faces. The servants quickly bowed and hastened their exit. Out the front door.

Weiss shared a look with Jaune and Blake. That was one way to ask for privacy. They wordlessly trailed Yang into the parlor where their host strode towards a cabinet at the far wall. She gestured at the three to have a seat on the leather chase lounge across from her.

They did so. And the first thing they were treated to was Yang pinching herself over and over.

"Yeah. I'm healthy," she declared. To herself.

"Yang," Jaune began. "Are you...?"

She raised her palm to him and pointed to where they were seated. "Stay right there. Don't move."

Yang carefully backpedaled, her withering gaze never once leaving them, until she had unlocked the cabinet. She reached in...and pulled out a shotgun. Which she cocked. And leveled at them with an intense glare.

Jaune quickly raised his hands. "Whoa, whoa, wait—"

"Shut up! Don't move!"

Weiss pulled him down to sit with Blake. The white-haired girl recovered enough to manage a disarming glyph this got any worse. "Yang, please. What are you—"

"I told you to shut up!" she shrieked, slowly pacing towards them. "This buckshot here can hit all of you. I got enough bleach to get rid of all the blood and my staff knows my rules. So play nice."

This had gotten completely out of hand rather quickly. Perhaps Yang was still doubtful about who they were. The former heiress took a deep breathe before trying again. "... Yang Xiao Long."

Yang tensed. Her grip wavered.

"Please. Stand down. It's us. Believe it or not, it really is us." Weiss gestured at herself and the two people beside her. "Weiss Schnee... Jaune Arc... Blake Belladonna. We're real. And we're not here to do you harm. We just want to talk."

"You want to talk? You want to talk?" the Dragon sputtered. "How 'bout I do the talking? 'Cause I got the gun and you...you can't possibly be who you are. Do you have Aura?"

Weiss scrunched her brow. "Of course, we do!"

"Then tell me what Aura is! Using Professor Goodwitch's words! From our second class at Beacon, first semester!"

Oh lovely. A panicked interrogation. Had she not have enough of that already? Nonetheless, if it helped to diffuse the situation... "Aura is a manifestation of our soul..."

* * *

Jaune was more baffled than afraid. Here he was in Yang's private Mistrali-type manor, squeezed onto a leather couch, with their own host freaking out and holding a shotgun to their faces. This was bizarre to say the least. And he thought he had seen it all.

He listened as Weiss droned on about Aura and Semblance and all the basics from their classes at Beacon, almost to the word. Man, either this girl had some good memory or she was that studious that she drilled her own notes into her own head.

"What's my favorite color!?" Yang hollered.

Weiss groaned. "Yellow."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh. Lucky guess. What...what is...where do I come from?"

Yang...was still very much the same in some areas. The fiery brawler was not good under pressure. This time, it was Blake who answered. "You're from Patch, an island off the coast of Vale. You have a—ugh—a _dog_ named Zwei. And your dad is a teacher at Signal Academy."

Jaune leaned over to Weiss. "Are we still going to do this?"

"Frankly, I've already had enough," she groused. "I've recovered enough to end this farce."

The blonde sergeant shrugged. "Do your thing, Weiss."

"Wha—?" Yang was immediately cut short when a small black glyph morphed in front of her, tossing the shotgun halfway across the parlor. She stumbled back and nearly landed on her rear, eyes wide and lips quivering. "Y-y-you...t-that w-was a..."

Sergeant Arkos, Lady Schnee, and Miss Belladonna arose from the chase lounge. They closed in and Yang dragged herself back.

"N-n-n-n-no! N-n-no way in hell!"

"You were really calm back there at the palace," Jaune said, genuinely perplexed. "What gives, Yang?"

"I...I had to keep up appearances," the Dragon defended. "I break down, I show weakness, I freak out and everything'll come crashing down! Whole army will come down on top of my freakin' head!"

That made some sense. First, though, they had to pacify this finicky Huntress. Weiss and Blake reached out, taking both of Yang's hands in theirs. The Dragon was stunned at their tender hold and she was tugged up into a three-way hug. Catching the bewilderment in her eyes and how glossy they became, Jaune stood back so the girls could speak their minds.

"... We missed you, Yang..."

"... I'm not dead. We're not dead..."

Yang stuttered then choked. "G-guys..." Her posture sagged and she reciprocated the embrace. Their shoulders shook. "I...I m-missed you too, guys... Oh gods... I missed you!"

SSB agent Jäger beamed. Successfully reunited with another one. Good. Things were looking up. For now. He was expecting another dip in their fortunes, having accepted the way the world works. Still, he found it best to savor this comfort. Not to mention, they were in neutral territory.

A stroll to the British sector, get the message out to Hillard and the SSB via telegram, debrief. It seemed so simple to which the realist in him readily disagreed. And Jaune, despite the high hopes preached by his SSB partner, had become too much of a realist to think that the coming days were going to be a cakewalk.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 17, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: December 5, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: December 5, 2018**


	37. September 8, 1919, Midday to Evening

_September 8, 1919 – Midday to Evening_

* * *

Lunch had been a lively affair with Yang's staff of well-groomed local servants filing in to adorn their table with a banquet while she animatedly related her adventures as the top muscle in Beiyang China.

"...and I said, 'Now, _that's_ a katana!' The guy was so embarrassed, they had to drag him out of the barracks for roll call for the next three days! Honor guard couldn't be complete without him, hah!"

A round of snickers and chortles rang from Jaune, Weiss, and Blake. At least, she ditched the puns. Somewhat.

"Let's dig in, everybody! Team Ru..." Yang's grin nearly faltered but she tacked on her joy even as the sergeant caught the other two girls look away with fading smiles. "Team _us_. We're...finally back together. Mostly."

The blonde sergeant could sense the depression in atmosphere. It was a familiar air that dominated the trenches back then. One way he knew to diffuse it... "So, me and Weiss are British spies."

Weiss spat out her tea while Yang, with a wicked grin, harped, "And I thought that was a load of BS. Well? Spill it, Vomit Boy!"

"Yang!" the former heiress scolded. "Show some respect! He's a sergeant in the French Army!"

The fiery brawler cast her a teasing smirk. "Oh-ho, what did I just hear? Is Ice Queen actually standing up for our limp noodle?"

Jaune kept mum as his SSB partner turned a steamy red. In his mind, he counted to three before she predictably snapped back.

"Our 'limp noodle' here is a decorated veteran of the Great War! He has served with distinction on the Western Front _and_ the Arkhangelsk Expedition where he was rightfully elevated to the rank of sergeant. He was awarded the _Croix de Guerre_ thrice over as well as the prestigious _M_ _é_ _daille Militaire._ He's seen far more than any of us here! So show. Due. Respect. Yang. Xiao. Long!"

The table was silent for three seconds.

The shock on Yang's face was not enough to wipe away the upward curve stretching into her cheeks. "Whoa. Easy there, Weiss-cream. Didn't think you'd get all uppity over your boyfriend there."

If Weiss had been flustered during her outburst, then the tint of her complexion made her appear as though she had spent a day locked in someone's boiler room. She recoiled while trying to readjust the frills on her dirty robes. "He's not—we're not—ugh! We are too busy for that!"

"That's not a denial," Yang rebutted cheekily.

"I'll say," Blake butted in. "I've had to put up with that passive-aggressive stuff since leaving Manchuria."

The Anfu Dragon leaned over to the Feng-t'ien Ghost. "You catch them doing it?"

Jaune coughed on his bread. " _Putain de merde_ , Yang!"

The cat faunus rolled her eyes. "If I did, you would already know."

Weiss screamed over her slice of roasted duck. "Blake! _Da ty zatknosh'sya nakonyets ili nyet_!?"

Yang laughed. "Relax, guys! It's been like, what? A year? Two? Nothing like a bit of ribbing to get our groove back. Besides, you got me there at that whole 'British spies' thing."

"Yeah," Jaune acquiesced. Then he raised his brow at her. "Come to think of it, how did you know who we were back at the palace?"

The fiery brawler leveled him carefully. After dismissing her staff, she replied, "You tell me all about this spy business thing you've got going on between you and Blake and I'll fill you in on my own dirty little secrets."

* * *

Weiss had to admit that Yang was taking this far more maturely than she anticipated. Then again, as an experienced nineteen-year-old mercenary, it would be no surprise.

"So let me get this straight," the Dragon worded. "You guys are legit British spies going undercover here in China with German aliases to cover your tracks. Then when you get caught, you blame the Japanese."

Jaune shrugged. "Pretty much. That whole roping-in-the-Japanese thing was Blake's idea though."

Yang was deep in thought for a while. She then stood, ushered them away from their boneyard of a banquet table and down a flight of stairs. "So far, you outed Adam. And you found Blake. Then we ran into each other. All that's left is..."

"The Serpent Monk—"

"Ren."

All three stood frozen on the steps descending into the brick and mortar basement. Weiss nearly tripped when Blake collided into her back, knocking her onto Jaune who almost lost his footing.

Yang rummaged through some shelves in the dark until they heard the click of a lever. Followed by rows of dangling electrical bulbs flickering to life, revealing a workstation cluttered with paper stacks, folded boxes, and a large map on the far wall tacked with countless pins, interwoven thread, and articles snipped from various newsletters and publications.

"You're next target is Ren," the Dragon echoed. "Trust me, guys. I know. I fought him."

That got all three of them moving until they were in front of the map of the known world as printed by the British. Yang pointed to a green pin pressed against a landlocked region in southern China.

"Three months ago. Here. In Guangzhou..."

* * *

Jaune was blown away.

Yang kept tabs on _everything_. It was a lot of information, half gathered from the foreign legations surrounding them, the rest noted down from the locals and debriefings with Marshal Chi-jui's cabal. Of the many things the blonde sergeant found impressing about the fiery brawler, astute intelligence-gathering was not one of them. It was a nice surprise given the level of accuracy and scrutiny he was seeing on the board.

"The SSB would've loved to have you," Jaune mumbled dumbly.

The Dragon chuckled while she elbowed him on the side. "I'm already taken. And so are you."

" _Zatkni past_ , Yang!" Weiss barked from the table behind them where she and Blake were busy sorting through the mountain of documents Yang had stockpiled over the couple years.

Jaune traversed to the European side of the map where he could see blue pins, marking some of the battles of the Great War. Including the engagements at the Marne, Ypres, and Aisne Rivers. Along with cut-outs from editorials glorifying (and demonizing) his exploits as Forked Lightning.

A line of blue thread stretched over to a pin tacked over Archangel where he saw the incriminating front page piece dated the day the Romanovs left Russia for good complete with that damn photograph. Of course, the imperial family themselves were in the shot but they were ascending onto the deck of the ship in the background with the main subject being Weiss pressed up against his face.

In all honesty, Jaune did not mind it as much as Weiss did. It was a kiss. Nothing more. Not like there was any deeper meaning to it, right? Friends kiss sometimes. Right? He liked to believe it was so. They had grown closer as friends since Archangel and the willingness to settle down in North Dakota with her was to cement their platonic relationship. Yes, that was it. Completely platonic.

"I'm impressed, Vomit Boy," Yang mused, planting her free on her hip while her stub of an arm dangled from her shoulder. Her mechanical appendage had been carefully unclasped and laid to rest on the shelf. "A whole year on the Western Front. Man, that must've been bloody."

Sergeant Arkos huffed bitterly. "Way worse than you'd imagine."

Yang seemed to have gotten the hint. She changed gears. "Look over here. It's an article talking about the Second Battle of the Marne. Not much but your name was on it. I was taking all chances. Shooting in the dark, hoping I'd get a hit, you know?"

Jaune pored over the documents. Column pieces detailing the mysterious white-haired lady in the envoy of the Romanovs. A handful of mentions and handwritten notes about the Ghost, the Serpent, and the Demon. Most of the publications were foreign press. "You got a lot of clout, huh."

Yang shrugged. "Ease of access, ripe location. Rep goes a long way."

"Really? So how famous are we here in the Far East?"

The Dragon mulled the question before answering, "About as famous as the day's hot topic. Monday, you're the talk of the town. Tuesday, people forget. Whatever they talk about here usually stays here. Unless the brass finds out and sometimes they go overboard with their speeches. Hyping up their troops." She shuddered. "It's weird and creepy seeing how easy those guys bite into their bullshit. Ever heard of their 'Dare To Die' corps?"

Forked Lightning grunted. "I imagine a lot of wanton sacrifice 'for the nation.'"

"Pretty much, yeah. Some of them go out with a literal bang, too."

Nothing he had never seen before, Jaune wanted to quip. He felt his hands slack over his hips and brush against where his pistol holster normally would have been strapped. "Say, Yang."

"Yeah?"

"Marshal Chi-jui confiscated a bunch of stuff from us. You think you can flex some muscle to get them back?"

"... I can. It's gonna take a while. Even with me giving the word, the red tape isn't getting any thinner. I'll still try and get you kitted up."

"Thanks."

Yang lifted her forearm and sniffed. Then recoiled. "Ugh. Man, we stink."

"I'll say." Jaune playfully elbowed her back. "You're rich. Got a fancy shower we could use?"

The Dragon beamed. "Oh, better than that." She leaned in to his personal space. "We can all go in together."

Jaune sputtered something incoherent for about a second before a heel clicked loudly against the floor. And Weiss's voice cut through the air like a heated knife through butter. "Yang Xiao Long! What manner of indecency are you implying!?"

Yang reeled back laughing. "Jealous, Ice Queen?"

"I beg your pardon!?"

"Even after all this time, you still don't let up, don't'cha?" The fiery brawler countered Weiss's glare with an even wider smirk. "Come on. I can't throw in a barb every now and then? Or is it I can't entertain Jaune?"

"You," the former heiress seethed.

Jaune moved to intercept. "Okay, now. That's enough, you two. How 'bout that shower? You go on ahead, girls. I'll...uh, I'll stay here...and take notes. Need to study all this stuff."

"Getting stiff down there?" Yang butted in as she headed up the stairs. "It's an open air bath so you're free to come over."

Weiss growled. Blake rolled her eyes. Jaune made a complete about-face turn to focus as best he could on the map.

"Come on, Weiss-cream. You're skinny dipping with me," he heard the Dragon bark.

The former heiress let out a strangled noise. "Would you please refrain from inferring such lewd acts?"

"Some things never change, huh, Yang," the Ghost mused.

Jaune silently agreed.

* * *

Weiss had to admit that she was a bit envious of her old teammate; Yang was practically richer than her. Back on Remnant, the notion was laughable. Here on Earth, it was ironic. Sitting here submerged up to her shoulders in a steaming pool as an honored guest to her wealthier former roommate reminded her of how much she had lost as an heiress to a massive business conglomerate. Not that she really missed those luxuries—house arrest with the Romanovs had been very humbling. It was only that she felt...poor. Again.

It was always an odd experience being poor. Always hinging on the generosity of others, hoping for leniency in places where extremism and anarchy trumped rationality and order. Poverty was not a painful, it was eye-opening. Definitely nothing to do with her being raised rich. Or so Weiss liked to convince herself from time to time.

The white-haired girl was snapped out of her reverie at the sound of Yang's voice. Blake had shed her robe and was carefully dipping into their open air bath. The bruises and cuts on her bare arms and legs were clear to see even after Jaune applied his Semblance to help seal some of them up.

The fiery brawler reached out to her. "Whoa, easy there, kitty—"

"I'm fine, Yang," Blake dismissed, shedding her modesty and dipping into the bath. "I smell."

"You're still hurt," her old partner argued.

"Yeah. I'm healing." The Feng-t'ien Ghost shook her head. "Seriously, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me. I'm getting better."

Weiss tugged at Yang's left hand. "Let her be."

The latter released a stifled breathe as she eased back down into the water. "Sorry. It's that...they put you through the shit they do to prisoners and...it fucking sucks."

"I know," Blake said. "But, hey, you got us out. Thanks for that."

"Aww, you don't have to say so," teased the maimed brawler.

The faunus rolled her eyes while keeping a light smirk. "Right. Just...don't touch me. I'm still sore."

"Gotcha." Yang waded slightly to the side to allow for Blake to fully submerge herself. Then she turned her attention to the SSB agent. ""So, Weiss-cream. How're you and Jaune?"

Weiss took three seconds too long to answer. "Amicable."

"More than that," Blake muttered teasingly.

"Excuse me?" the former heiress protested.

"Professionalism is a bad excuse," the cat faunus countered with a cheshire grin.

"I'll have you know that—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, don't need to hear everything twice."

And with that, the three members of what had once been team RWBY settled leisurely into the bath. Weiss once again drifted in her thoughts. Here they were, ultimately reunited in a world more brutal than the last, enjoying a respite from war and strife. There was only one more element needed to complete them. Alas, until then, Weiss could hope that Ruby was doing well elsewhere...whether on Remnant or on Earth.

* * *

Jaune was on his way to his own open air bath, reserved exclusively for males, when he came face to face with Weiss in a robed nightgown. It was not the first time he had seen her with her hair down and dressed to rest. But something about the way she looked... Maybe it was the moonlight? Yeah, definitely the moonlight. Making things pretty...and lovely...

"Yes, Jaune?"

"Sorry," he said, snapping at attention and rubbing his eyes. "Went through Yang's files. Plotted hotspots where Ren could be active. I'm thinking we could go see the British legation tomorrow, call up the SSB and—"

Weiss pulled on his arm. "Jaune, stop."

"... What?"

For a moment, her glare transformed the wooden walls of Yang's manor into a familiar medical ward where the window sill outside was lined with snow. He blinked and the Archangel hospital vanished from his peripheries, replaced by a pale face lined with free flowing white hair. Complimented by a pair of sharp turquoise orbs.

"Weiss?"

"Jaune. You've done enough. Please, rest."

He sighed. "I will, I will. Can I have my bath, please?"

"When you're done, I expect you to be in your bed resting. Not poring through notes all through the night."

"Weiss, I'm not that...Blake-y. I know I'm tired. That's why I'm going to get cleaned up so I can have a goodnight's sleep." He tipped her chin up at him while he let his lip curve slightly. "Happy?"

She glanced away. "... Appeased."

"You go on and get some shut-eye, too," Jaune finished, stepping around her and disappearing outside to his own bath, leaving his SSB partner and friend to stew in her thoughts in the hallway.

* * *

Weiss did not stew for long. Her bare feet carried her upstairs to her room where she shut herself inside and slid down the door, staring blankly at the evening sky peeking through her open window.

This could not be happening.

This is not happening!

She calmed her breathing. Count one to ten. Clear her mind. Think of something else.

Petrograd. Riots. Romanovs. Anya and Lyoshka. Yekaterinberg. Mister Dverko. Jaune. Arkhangelsk. Safe haven. The Allies. Jaune. North Dakota. Mansion in the countryside. Jaune. Fencing with the Romanov sisters. Jaune. Far East. Jaune...

Weiss dropped her head into her hands. What on Earth was wrong with her? Why now? Why not then? Not all the times they were together, training for a month in the woods outside Arkhangelsk, trekking for a week through Mongolia? The kiss at the docks, that awkward moment in that cave...

She let her hand drift down where she could feel her heart beating.

Why was this happening?

Jaune was nothing more than a friend. An annoyance, at first, the bane of her existence who had later redeemed himself. Willing to go to great lengths for the well-being of others, holding true to the chivalrous creed of the knights of fantasy. And here he was, driven by the same noble cause, to search for their other friends who were displaced. But at what cost?

And would it hurt her if he paid the ultimate price?

Was she daft!? Yes, it would! She cared for him, going so far as to volunteer as an aide to the nurses in the understaffed hospital at Arkhangelsk so she could see to his recovery. And the well-being of the others injured in the fighting, of course.

So why was she hurting when he was reassigned by the SSB? Why did she follow him here to the Far East? Why...could she not separate herself from him?

" _Ya_ ," she choked at herself, " _Ya_... _ya yego lyublyu_."

The pressure building against her chest only grew heavier at the admission.

* * *

The last time he had the luxury of a steaming open air bath was when his family visited Mistral for a week when he was a kid. The warmth of the water and the calmness in the air restored unto him memories he once thought forgotten. Calmer days when he worried less of Grimm, less of reaching the standards of being a Huntsman, less of trying to save Pyrrha...

He took a deep breath.

All that was in the past now. The present mattered for it dictated the future and right now, he was to enjoy this luxury so he could be at his best first thing in the morning. So Weiss can stop pestering about it.

She was always on his case. Was he alright? Was he hurt? Did he forget anything? Did he clean his gun? Did he check the map? Was his compass working? Where was the food? Did they have enough money to get to the next town?

Weiss was so high-maintenance, it was...homely. Any man would have given her up. But this was Weiss. He knew her personally. She was a friend. A good friend. A close friend. His _only_ friend from their real home.

He took another deep breath and looked up at the moonless sky.

"Can I try again?" he asked the stars.

Maybe this time, it could work.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: November 17, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: December 16, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: December 16, 2018**

 **NOTE: There. Drank an energy drink and that gave me the boost to cap off this chapter. It's a busy month and I've got a lot on my plate so updates will take even longer.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Putain de merde_! = French cuss phrase**

 ** _Da ty zatknosh'sya nakonyets ili nyet_!? = Would you shut up already!? [Russian]**

 _ **Zatkni past**_ **! = Shut up! [Russian]**


	38. September 9, 1919

_September 9, 1919_

* * *

Jaune was once again feeling anxious with what they were doing now.

The four of them had discussed it thoroughly over breakfast and later on split up to meet their respective objectives. Yang and Blake would try to reclaim their confiscated equipment and the Kenpeitai documents while he and Weiss focused on addressing Hillard via the diplomatic channel at the British foreign office within the legation.

It was tense strolling as casually as he could fake it through the streets. The blonde sergeant had been on edge with flashes of their close call in Moscow when he felt his partner's slim fingers snaked around his. He glanced to his side. A new wig, fancy clothes, and a fine touch of cosmetics gave her an unassuming identity. Added to his own fedora and gentleman's long coat, they blended in with the crowd of Western foreigners.

So far, they were selling their cover. A little too well, perhaps. Jaune had noticed the minor notches in Weiss's behavior since this morning.

"I know we have to keep up appearances but you can let go now," he whispered into her ear when they had wandered far enough away from the nearest pedestrian.

"Is that a problem?" Fürstin challenged sharply.

"Maybe not to you," Jäger argued. He stopped in his tracks to meet her glare with his own. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

She did not let go, instead tightening her grip on his arm. "Excuse me! Are you assuming?"

"Assuming what, Weiss? You think I'd ignore you holding my hand under the table at breakfast? Or that back rub you gave me when I was putting on this shirt?"

Her cheeks brightened despite her fierce glower. "I was preparing for our role. Do you think it's easy for me to slip into a false identity as easily as the snap of my finger?"

Jaune wanted to pull at his hair. He was no idiot. He knew what had been going on. He knew the direction his relationship with her was veering towards. He was no fool yet he sometimes wondered whether it was wise to keep mum about all this since the start.

He asked her again, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Yes. Act harder." Then she once again locked her hand with his and dragged him out onto the street, the both of them nodding and passing by a squadron of unsmiling uniformed Russian troops observing their every step.

* * *

Weiss did not know what she was thinking when she let herself get lost in the haze of emotions clouding her mind. In her moment of self-discovery the previous evening, she had learned how much she had dammed up within her. Her actual thoughts, her genuine feelings, her unmentioned sentiments towards Jaune Arc...

When she acknowledged it, she felt the knot in her stomach loosen only for a burden to sag onto his shoulders. Jaune was _everything_ to her. And she had no idea how to go about it.

For the time being, the former heiress had been leading their aimless stroll until they reserved a table in a British restaurant manned by Chinese staff and, interestingly enough, a handful of Russians.

" _Spasibo bolshoye_ ," she bade to a blonde Russian waitress who seemed to be no older than she was.

Jaune nodded the same and the two waited until the young girl disappeared into the kitchen to relay their order. It was a stroke of fortune that not many patrons were in today. Less potential eavesdroppers to worry about, less effort to try and lower their voices.

"She's probably a refugee," her partner remarked.

"I know," Weiss sighed. "You'd think their wealth would help them when they fled here but...rubles are not worth that much with the fighting and all. And I doubt many would be willing to learn English if only to communicate with the Chinese."

"Yeah. Mandarin's hard enough with all that calligraphy."

"The Japanese are just across the canal," she reminded him.

"I know," he answered neutrally. "We won't have to go through their territory unless we have to. Even if we did, I don't think they'd recognize us in this get-up."

"As long as we stick to our aliases and continue playing our roles..." Weiss felt the words dry in her throat even before Jaune leaned in close with his elbows planted firmly on the table.

"Look, Weiss. I got to be frank with you."

"What is it?" she asked, for some reason dreading what he was going to say.

He was contemplative for a moment. "... You're in too deep."

She scrunched her brow. "What are you talking about?"

Her partner frowned. "Act poorly, no one would believe it. Act too much, it'd be too ridiculous to be believable."

Weiss felt her throat dry up. What brought that about? Why was she suddenly nervous? What in the world was wrong with her? "What are you going on about?"

He moved quicker than she knew him for. His hand had seized hers. While reflex demanded she throw him out the window, she instead remained still. His touch was warm, soothing, as though a disarming charge ran up her arm. Perhaps it was her imagination or he was channeling a bit of his own Aura.

They rarely had physical contact. The few instances that they did brush skin were often products of either necessity or happenstance: crossing rickety bridges, wading through rapid creeks, assailing rugged rock faces. Instances like these, however—pretending to be something they were not—always made her feel uneasy...uneasily at ease.

She felt no remorse when she latched onto him in Moscow. It was an automatic response tailored to deceive onlookers. The same could be said here. Could it?

"What are you doing?" she nearly squeaked.

He caressed her fingers then let go. He was once more absorbed in his own little world. Slowly, a disarming smile crept to the edges of his lips. " _Comme tu es belle aujourd'hui_."

Weiss hid her surprise. She blinked too many times and found it hard to maintain her gaze upon him. Her cheeks flushed with warmth while she tried to find something interesting among the many paintings lining the wall behind him. " _Seulement aujourd'hui_?"

His chuckled...nervously? " _Je pourrais seulement le dire maintenant._ "

She stammered. " _M-merci beaucoup_."

* * *

Throughout their meal, Jaune realized how easy it was to draw on the confidence that constantly eluded him when he was a bumbling idiot of a freshman. Interestingly, it seemed the tables were reversed: Weiss was tripping on her words while continued giving her compliments. Perhaps it was his French. Or maybe it was...

"What are we going to tell them?" she asked.

Jaune set aside his emptied plate. "Standard debriefing."

"Strictly the facts?"

"We tell if they ask."

"If they ask about Blake? And Yang?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

"Is this a bridge we're crossing right now?"

Jaune saw how quickly she snapped her jaw shut then glance away. He reached out and held her arm. Startling her. "What is it?"

Weiss was uncertain. Clouded. Foggy. Indecisive. Something was nipping at her though he had a mite of an idea of what it could be. "I...I'll tell you after we've...cabled Hillard."

He sighed. "Understood."

They lingered for another uncomfortable moment before departing, leaving a generous tip for the stunned Russian waitress. Back onto the street, hands once more intertwined, adjoined at the hip as the two undercover SSB agents strolled towards the offices of the British foreign ministry.

It was sunny and the mesh of European masonry and East Asian architecture blended immaculately with the rows of trimmed greenery adorning the street. Inspired by the scenery, Jaune stole fleeting glances at his partner. In her bonnet, her dress, her gracefulness...

He could not help himself. "Wiess, _je tiens_ _à_ _toi_."

She glanced back up at him with a sad smile. " _Toi aussi_ , _mon amour_."

The blonde sergeant nodded emptily. Whether that was Weiss talking or her cover was another matter to be settled another day. Preferably after they were done with the SSB.

* * *

Sergeant Arkos and Lady Schnee sat down on the bench outside the British foreign office. They had already sent the telegram. The diplomatic ministers so far remained unaware of their true identity. All they could bank on right now was Hillard's conduct.

Would he sell them out? Hung out to dry? Perhaps reinforced with new agents or withdrawn from the Far East entirely?

To calm her anxiety, Weiss leaned on Jaune's shoulder while her hand remained intertwined with his.

"You know," he piped, "we've got the rest of the day."

"To do what?"

He gestured at the surrounding buildings. "Sightseeing. Looking at nice things is a nice way to kill all this tension, don't you think?"

Weiss looked at him. And he at her. "Yes... Yes, Jaune. I would love to go see nice things."

He smiled at her. And she at him. "Come then, _mon amour_. There is much to see."

And see much, they did. From street to street, they strode, taking in the flavors of Europe in this Far Eastern neighborhood. Jäger and Fürstin were wary of the goggling Imperial Japanese and White Russian troops but Jaune and Weiss were too absorbed in their roles to care too much about it.

* * *

"So how was your date?" Yang asked with thinly veiled mischief.

Weiss raised her chin at her host as she handed her blouse to a valet. "Our day was relaxing."

The fiery brawler snickered. "Sure it was. Where's your fiancé?"

"I'm right here, Yang," Jaune groused as he crossed the antechamber. "Shouldn't you be, you know, repo-ing our stuff?"

She sported a playful pout. "Aww, let me have a bit of fun, guys."

Lady Schnee was unimpressed. "Yang. Do you have them?"

The Dragon blew raspberries at the former heiress. "Spoilsport. Yeah, we got 'em. Come on. Blake's downstairs with everything...and then some."

"What did you mean with that last bit?" interrogated the blonde sergeant.

She tittered. "A little something special from the armory. You're going to love it. Made in Austria-Hungary."

"But Austria-Hungary has been parceled by the Allies into separate nation states," Weiss reminded upon setting foot into their downstairs command center where Blake was cleaning her katana.

"Eh, details, details."

"So an Austro-Hungarian rifle?" Jaune mused. "Not much different from what we were issued."

"Rifle? Not yet, Vomit Boy. For now, you'll have to have something smaller...and cuter." Yang rummaged through the supplies stacked on the shelves until she returned to the pair and plopped the aforementioned 'special' onto Forked Lightning's open palm. "Ta-da! It's called a Kolibri."

Jaune could only gawk in absolute disbelief at the tiny pistol in his hand while Weiss let out an audible sigh of exasperation beside him.

"I know, I know, it looks like a peashooter but it actually hurts if you aim it in the right spot," Yang yammered. "I even got you a whole box of bullets."

Needless to say, Forked Lightning wanted to shoot this ridiculously miniature clockwork gun at the Anfu Dragon.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 21, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: December 29, 2018**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: December 29, 2018**

 **NOTE: Wedding gigs, holiday events, and the flu. Lovely end-of-the-year cocktail there. Hope you guys enjoyed your Holidays and a Happy New Year, folks!**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Spasibo bolshoye**_ **. = Thank you very much. [Russian]**

 ** _Comme tu es belle aujourd'hui_. = You're really beautiful today. [French]**

 _ **Seulement aujourd'hui**_ **? = Only today? [French]**

 ** _Je pourrais seulement le dire maintenant_. = I could only say it now. [French]**

 ** _Je tiens_ _à_ _toi_. = I care for you. [French]**

 _ **Toi aussi**_ **,** ** _mon amour_. = You too, my love. [French]**


	39. September 10, 18, 1919

_September 10, 1919_

* * *

The response from the SSB arrived quicker than expected. Yang took the telegram from the platter held out by one of her footmen and vanished down into their nerve center of a basement where Jaune, Weiss, and Blake were waiting to analyze the agency's reply:

 _Acknowledged STOP Continue objectives STOP Operate as circumstances intend STOP No more compromises STOP Immense gratitude and best regards from us to Drachen and Geist=_

 _Aufseher_

Yang raised her brow. " _Drachen_?"

" _Geist_ ," hummed Blake. "I take it that means 'ghost.' Coincidental that Geist Grimm are sort of like that. What does _aufseher_ mean?"

"Hillard's call sign," Weiss said, folding up the paper. "Means 'overseer.'"

"Keeping up the German," Jaune remarked. He breathed deep to assuage the discomfort he was feeling. Was this how blasé handlers were to their field agents? If so, it was a bitter facet they had to get used to. Being denied by their own people felt as homely as being rendered expendable in a war of attrition. "So that's how it is, then. We took two casualties and we're ordered to keep moving."

"Well, the alternatives would not have been as pleasant, I presume," his partner said.

He slumped back down onto his stool. "Yeah...I guess."

Silence.

"Okay. So now what?" the Dragon asked.

Jäger and Fürstin shared a glance before the former replied, "As Aufseher said: we continue with the mission. Anything new on Ren or Adam?"

Yang shook her head. "Nothing on the radar yet."

"Where does that leave us?" posited Blake.

The Dragon walked to the cluttered map on the wall. "... We wait until something comes up. I don't have to go looking for trouble 'cause it usually pops up every now and then. Something the troops can't handle, boss calls me up to take care of it. Which is...almost always."

"And we jump on it because it might lead to either Ren or Adam. Or both," Jaune continued, following her train of thought.

"There is still room for idle time," Weiss interjected. "We could use that for training and language study. Ingrain ourselves among the Chinese and their culture. The animosity between the locals and the foreigners was so thick, I feel suffocated by it."

The blonde sergeant turned to the Dragon. "On that note, Yang, could you please get me a better gun? Seriously. This isn't funny."

Yang cracked a mischievous grin. "Wha'd'ya mean?"

"A rifle, shotgun, hell even a sword would be better than this...this pocket watch!" he flailed, gesturing at Weiss's cavalry saber and the dual blades of death Blake had on the shelf.

"But the Kolibri's so cute!"

"Not going to help if we get into a gunfight!"

"Pssh, quit your whining. I already got you a big gun. And I mean _big_. Placed the order yesterday. Takes a while for the delivery."

Jäger tilted his head. "At this point, I'm uncomfortable with what you've gotten for me."

"Depends on what you mean by uncomfortable," the Dragon answered slyly. "Besides, with you being a vet and all, I'm pretty sure you won't have any trouble hauling around heavy stuff. Right?"

He had a deadpan expression. "Dead bodies, yes."

Yang's smirk faltered. "Uh, right. Hey, at least you've got the muscles for it."

"Yang," Weiss intercepted sternly. "What exactly did you get him this time?"

"Chill, Ice Queen," giggled their host. "This one's the real deal. Made in Germany. Quality firepower."

"So a Mauser, then," ventured Jaune.

"Yeah, I think that's what it's called."

Forked Lightning sighed. At least it was something familiar he could work with. "That's...better."

Yang clapped her hands loudly, grabbing their attention. "Sweet! Now, then. How 'bout a little sparring? Haven't had a good Huntsman-level brawl in a long time."

"And how would we keep that inconspicuous?" Weiss challenged.

"I know a few good places we could let loose. Lots of open land outside the city and a lot of the locals are so superstitious, they could file off the lights and sounds as the work of spirits or something. Ain't that right, Geist?"

Blake rolled her eyes as she scooped up her katana and kusarigama. "No argument there."

Weiss offered her partner a hand. "Come. Unlike Yang, I have acquired for you a practice tool."

"A Chinese sword?" he guessed.

"More like a halberd."

* * *

Weiss could not hide her pride when Jaune received the ji from a servant. The pole-arm was a thoroughly preserved heritage weapon from some tumultuous insurrection in the past—a Chinese anti-foreigner rebellion involving a lot of boxing or so they said.

"So...how do I fight with this?" he wondered, his hold on the shaft speaking volumes of his inexperience with these types of weapons. His experience with Crocea Mors and subsequent industrial firearms regrettably had no contribution somewhat to this.

"Only one way to find out," she replied primly, her hand on the hilt of her sheathed saber. "Come. I'm sure it's a normal sight for us to be sparring with these weapons in the gardens."

As she turned to stroll outside to Yang's beautifully landscaped backyard, she did not miss the bead of nervous sweat slide down his temple. Much like their training nights at Arkhangelsk.

"Uh, Weiss? Where'd you get the money to pay for this anyway? I'm sure Yang didn't really sponsor this...right?"

"Don't worry about my funding," the white-haired lady deflected. The nightgown she and Anastasia had sown together back in Yekaterinberg remained thankfully unsullied despite her fears. It was of good fortune that none of the soldiers or quartermasters discovered the hidden tear above the waist where one could easily fish out one of the many priceless Romanov jewels.

Somewhere outside those dominating stone walls of the Legation Quarter, a black market vendor was probably having a finely cut Russian gemstone appraised for its true value.

"But...we're technically broke," he persisted. "How did you...?"

She silenced him with her blade hovering a bare inch from his throat. "As I said, _mon amour_. Do not question my means of procurement."

He gulped even as his eyes narrowed down at her. "Understood... _ma chère_."

Weiss withdrew with a graceful bow designed to conceal her beaming smile. "Now then. _En garde_!"

* * *

 _September 18, 1919_

* * *

If Jaune had been dumbfounded when Yang plopped the Kolibri on his open palm, then he was comparably stupefied when she popped the lid off the wooden crate she hauled downstairs into the basement. Cushioned by thick layers of hay lay snuggled a weapon he rarely ever saw on the Western Front.

"Look at that," the Dragon fawned. "Told you I'd get you something good!"

"Is this...?" Weiss trailed dumbfounded.

Blake was silently wide-eyed.

Jaune hovered over the open crate for a moment until a clap on the back from Yang got him to scoop up the large rifle. He grunted from the effort until he set it down on the floor with a solid thunk. "I, uh..."

"What? Is it hard to say thank you?"

"Th-thanks. Thank you, Yang. _Merci beaucoup_ ," he stammered.

"That...looks designed to kill more than just people," Blake echoed uneasily.

"Indeed," Weiss agreed. "What is it?"

"It's a German gun, alright," Jaune said. "Made to counter our tanks. It's anti-armor so you could imagine how much damage it could do to a person."

"I'm concerned...about how much you're going to use that in our operations," his partner intoned.

"I know." Seeing the weapon brought forth the images of the unfortunate men who caught the large bullets meant for hulking steel war machines. And then the memory of him shooting Blake in the shoulder. He shuddered. Aura could do so much against a bullet of this caliber.

His stomach turned at the thought of blasting this at Ren. Not so much at Adam even though the bastard deserved every bit of pain he inflicted in the past. Still, a gun was a gun. With a tiny peashooter of a sidearm in his front pocket and a bulky, heavy, bolt-action cannon designed to break his own shoulder with every shot fired, Jaune felt little confidence in his efficiency to continue operating in the field.

" _Mon Dieu_ , Yang..." he breathed.

"Aww, you're welcome, Vomit Boy!"

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 31, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: January 2, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: December 31, 2018**

 **NOTE: One more before the year ends. Have a good one, folks!**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Ma chère_** **= My dear [French]**

 _ **En garde**_ **! = On guard! [French]**

 _ **Mon Dieu**_ **= My God/Good God [French]**


	40. October 30, 1919

_October 30, 1919_

* * *

Sergeant Arkos ducked on instinct, inspiring his three fellow 'foreign mercenaries' to do the same. A second later, bullets shattered against the rocky outcrop they were perched behind. Down in the ravine below, the pops and cracks of several dozen rifles resonated over the shouts of the many Chinese skirmishers.

"Our vanguard's already committed!" he barked. "It's too late to pull them back!"

"If that's the case, the entire division is going to move in," Yang replied.

"That would prompt the other side to do the same. Both sides will be fully committed!" Weiss assessed. "This will become another undeclared faction war!"

"I don't think Marshal Chi-jui can afford another one with General Shu-Cheng up in Mongolia right now," Blake added.

For lack of a steel helmet, Jaune dared to raise his head to survey the battlefield. The two sides faced each other over a wide riverine gorge in the verdant jagged mountain ranges zigzagging along the border to China's southern province of Kwangtung. The geography was nightmarish for open formations and any engagements here would only exacerbate the casualties of both sides given the tactics in play. Unless one or the other would break contact, this was going to get bloodier.

His fingers gripped the rough edges of the outcrop while he tried to form a plan in his head.

There! An indentation in the cliffside six paces to their right. Enough space to support a person or two. He crawled past his team, unslung his heavy anti-tank rifle, and planted its support legs against grooves in the granite. Shoulder on the stock, cheek against the wood... Good. Iron sights but a manageable distance between him and the advance scouts of the forces of Kuomintang General Tsao Kun.

"Jaune, what are you doing!?" hollered Weiss.

"Be my spotter!" he yelled.

"What!?"

"Spot for me!"

* * *

Weiss stammered in disbelief. For the third time, Jaune yelled at her to be his eyes.

Hesitantly, the former heiress struggled to squeeze next to him, careful not to take up too much space lest they compromise their position on the ledge and risk a long fall down the slope. A precarious sniping perch on the side of a cliff? Daring. And with a cumbersome weapon of dubious accuracy and determinate pain on the shooter's shoulder? Stupidly daring.

She felt she had no choice. She wanted to protest but she already had her binoculars pressed to her face, her mouth running off rough estimates. She had little preparation for this role yet she did her best to designate targets for her partner.

Fürstin highlighted a man standing up from behind a boulder to take aim. Jäger immediately centered his sights on him and squeezed.

The powerful discharge of the massive caliber pierced her ears as much as the recoil rocked his shoulder. Across the valley, the uniformed scout dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Jaune cycled the bullet and pressed his cheek down on the stock. "Good. Give me another one."

Weiss stared at him. Despite her experiences, she still found it difficult to comprehend taking the life of another human being. It was horrifying carving through Russia's Red Guard militia to escape Petrograd. And the measures she took to protect the Romanovs...

"Weiss," his voice echoed. Followed by his touch on her wrist. And a disturbing mien that pierced into her. "Hey. It's okay. It's part of the job."

She nodded shakily.

"Okay. Now give me a target." He glanced up at Yang and Weiss who appeared unnerved and indecisive. "You two! Thin them out before reinforcements could arrive!"

They stared at him.

"I said shoot them down before back-up gets here!" Forked Lightning boomed. "Weiss! Give me a new target, now!"

Shaken, the white-haired girl scanned the valley below for another target. She bit down on her lip, anything to make this easier for her. At that moment, she realized that unlike Russia where she fought to protect those she cared about, she was fighting as an agent of fortune.

She mouthed the new mark and had to recoil from the deafening bang of the rifle in her partner's hands. And so it was for the next untold number of minutes before a whole Kuomintang division bolstered the frontline. More guns rattled back up at them and when the four of them withdrew from their nest, they were met with the reinforcing Beiyang battalions hiking up and down the rugged terrain to complete the first full-on battle between the two rivaling Chinese factions.

* * *

The next three hours were full of bloody fighting on a scale that stunned Weiss, Blake, and Yang. The shooting on the frontline devolved into vicious melees between soldiers who had forgone their guns with swords, rocks, and sticks. The rear echelons continued to filter into the ridge, raining down fire from their perches. Discipline caved under the pressure of the bloodlust in the air as each man fought his own battle with the other.

This was beyond the isolated, small-scale inter-faction incidents Blake and Yang had been accustomed to. This was much worse than the ravenous engagements Weiss had personally witnessed in the snowy fields of Russia. Yet, for Jaune, it was but a bitter nostalgic taste of the chaos of the Great War.

There he was back in the middle of it...much to Weiss's horror.

"Jaune!" she cried out. "Jaune!"

Standing behind a line of riflemen firing disorganized volleys down into the ravine, she singled out her dearest friend clamoring atop a corpse. He raised the bloody shovel he used to beat the man to death with and screamed at the top of his lungs.

It rattled the Kuomintang as much as it did her.

Was this the feared storm-trooper she had read so much about? A young man rendered feral in the moment, rallying those behind him to converge upon the enemy at the cost of their own.

"Jaune! Jaune, wait! Stop!"

Alas, her cries were in vain. Sergeant Ionas Arkos, frenzied back into his Forked Lightning persona, led the charge. Around her, his battle cry resounded up the ranks of Marshal Chi-jui's army. Hollering Beiyang troops rushed down to pursue General Kun's battered forces who, in turn, broke rank and fled.

"Weiss!"

Weiss felt Yang's hand on shoulder, pulling her back as scores of troops charged around her. The latter pointed to a narrow crevasse where the retreating troops desperately squeezed through, risking trampling their own. "They're bottlenecked over there!"

Blake dropped between them, herself out breath, and wiping the blood off of her katana. "I just saw Jaune! He's leading the pursuit!"

"I know!" Weiss snapped, her legs carrying her down the ridge with her saber drawn. "Which is why we have to get to him before...before..."

"Weiss!"

"Hey, wait up!"

SSB agent Fürstin sprung a glyph below her to safely propel herself down into the ravine, squeezing through the rushing rank-and-file conscripts. The Dragon and the Ghost kept pace with her, attention divided between the white-haired girl and the blonde sergeant whose figure disappeared into the crevasse.

* * *

Blake was the first to see it. She called attention to the blur that suddenly speared into the ground. Smoke and dust erupted from the ridge, knocking bodies back.

Weiss skidded to a halt, dodging the handful of young men who had been pushed asunder by the shockwave. Her two fellow Huntresses came to stop on her flanks, both as thunderstruck as she was when the smoke cleared.

A mass of bodies were piled haphazardly up ahead—unmoving draftees in Beiyang uniforms. There was movement and the corpses were thrown back. Then the silhouette rose to his full height, blue monk robes rippling in the mountain breeze, quarterstaff tipped into the ground. Dark flowing hair waving underneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, punctuated by a distinctive strand of pink.

His eyes met theirs. They went wide.

"That's him," Yang breathed. "... Ren."

Before any of them advanced in step, Forked Lightning stepped in front of them wielding a bloody dented shovel.

Lie Ren and Jaune Arc stared each other down, the former stoically astounded, the latter seething from adrenaline. No words were spoken between them. Only a stalemate between a wandering ascetic Huntsman and four of his kind. In the distance, the mauled remnants of the Kuomintang army raised by General Tsao Kun escaped unmolested.

The air was thick.

Ren raised his staff. Jaune moved.

* * *

"Ren!"

Leap.

"It's me!"

Dodge.

" _Merde_ , Ren!"

Strike parried. The Serpent Monk wordlessly pressed his weight down on his quarterstaff, bearing down on the shovel Forked Lightning held up over his face.

"It's me! Jaune Arc! Your teammate! Team JNPR! Remember!?"

For the first time since they engaged, Ren spoke. Or screamed into his face. All sense of control near devoid from his dilated pupils. "Enough!"

Jaune pushed back, buying enough time to put space between him and his opponent. While he struggled to regain his footing, Ren was in a pose ready to deliver another blow. In place of two akimbo pistol-daggers was a sturdy quarterstaff.

A pole-arm weapon.

He neither had one nor mastered its usage but he knew how to counter it.

"Guys! Wait!"

"Hey! Stop!"

He ignored their voices and focused on intercepting the shaft making for his throat. He swung and the spade caught the end of the staff, allowing him to grasp a fistful of his opponent's monastic robe. Jaune saw a flash of pink before he smashed his forehead against his. Ren stumbled back while the blonde sergeant stepped in with the entrenching tool raised.

It did not come down.

Glyphs separated them. Black, blue, and white. Weiss's Semblance threw them both off, hurling both combatants away from each other. The Huntress in question raised her saber. Another rotating glyph prevented Ren from countering.

"Blake! Now!" she yelled.

A sickle sped through the air tethered to a chain, colliding with the wooden pole-arm then hooking over the shaft. Blake yanked and the quarterstaff was wrenched free from Ren's grasp.

"Yang!"

"I got 'ya!" A mechanical fist rushed up to his midsection.

Ren tumbled and landed roughly. He picked himself up only to be forced into the rock wall by another glyph.

"Ren!" thundered a glowing Sergeant Arkos wielding the Monk's own weapon. He rushed up and pinned him to the cliff face with the staff, restraining much to keep from spearing him all the way through but pushing just enough to keep him stationary. "That's enough! Stand down!"

The Serpent Monk growled, gripping the shaft to try and wrest himself free. Forked Lightning replied by pressing harder, his grip bolstered ironclad by Aura.

"Stand down, _bordel de merde_!"

"How dare you," he seethed, "Impostor. You don't know Jaune! You can't be him!"

"I _am_ him. Look at me. Look at my hands. Do you see another blonde, blue-eyed guy filled with Aura fighting back like this!?"

"Whoa, cool it," Yang said.

"Shut up, Yang!"

"No. No, no!" Ren frothed, his iconic self-control breaking apart. "Jaune Arc fell at Beacon! _We_ fell at Haven!"

"And yet you're here," Blake interjected coolly as platoons of Beiyang troops run surrounded them, some occupying positions behind cracked boulders and overgrowth. The clicking of rifles followed. "I was there, too. Yang as well. We were all there. It's us, Ren. The Relics didn't kill us. We were displaced."

"She's right," Yang added, showing off her cybernetic appendage. "You remember me. You know I'm the real deal. And let me tell you that this _is_ the real deal. This right here is Jaune Arc and Weiss Schnee in the flesh."

Ren's animosity fizzled. He gaped around him, desperation showing in his face as he took in the many uneasy Beiyang conscripts aiming their guns at him. He glanced down at a sympathetic Yang. He looked to Weiss and Blake, the two girls silently pleading for him to surrender. Then Jaune shimmering, his glare softening.

The Serpent Monk let go of the shaft. Jaune withdrew and Ren dropped to his knees.

"... Jaune," he huffed.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"I surrender."

* * *

Jingle, jangle.

Jaune adjusted his footing on the outcrop jutting off the side of the path so he could catch a glimpse of Ren diligently following in the steps of his escort, unwittingly jiggling the chains hanging from the cast-iron cuffs on his wrists. No complaints, no protests. Only silent obedience to every order issued to the prized prisoner of the Beiyang government.

Perhaps it was Buddhism. Or Taoism. Or whatever it was that monks here in the Far East were devoted to. Or maybe Ren had embraced a more ascetic lifestyle. Or Ren was just...Ren-nier than ever before.

"Watch your step," the blonde sergeant warned, if only to break the awkward silence permeating the long march back north to Peking. The lack of railways here in southern China was a pain.

Ren nodded and, following along with his escorts, carefully trudged down the sloping trail with minimal difficulty despite his bindings.

Sergeant Arkos returned to his 'squadron.'

"How's he holding up?" Yang asked.

"Quiet as always."

"Has he ever been like this?" Blake inquired, hiking alongside them.

Jaune shook his head. "Never this reserved. Could be the lifestyle, I guess. He's grown into it."

"There are a lot of monasteries here," Weiss added. "I would not be surprised if he subscribed to any of their teachings. They are very peaceful places from what I've gathered."

The Dragon whistled. "Still... He dished out a lot of damage back there. He hasn't lost a step."

"He's gotten better," complimented the Ghost.

Forked Lightning nodded along with the conversation. It was long way to go. Up ahead stretched a thick spine of uniformed Beiyang troops trudging in columns atop this mountain ridge. The rains of autumn had already transformed much of the terrain into muddy quagmires leading to several isolated incidents of soldiers slipping and nearly sliding down the slope...if not for their timely intervention.

Jaune lost count of how many times he or any of his team had jumped in to save some poor bastard from a steep drop. He assessed that by winter, they would be back in Peking, huddled around Yang's fireplace or probably in the company of the British given Hillard's unpredictability.

* * *

Come dusk, the entire regiment had encamped on the base of the mountain, the flat ground suitable to contain a whole canton of tents. In the middle was one where three dozen men were posted to guard while the rest of their comrades slumbered comfortably in their rucks.

'Back there...was that you or was that Forked Lightning?'

'Your conduct was...disturbing.'

'The Great War really shaped you.'

Jaune sighed. He could never really blame them. The battle had been intense and their side took heavy casualties. Weiss was always straightforward, never beating around the bush. Any flaws she spotted, she quickly rectified. Much like how Miss Goodwitch would school his poor ass back then.

"I know I have a problem," he breathed to the clouded evening sky. "I'm trying. I really am."

Partially lost in thought, he wandered around the muddy grounds until he found himself in front of the tent where the Kuomintang prisoners were housed. Wordless salutes and nods exchanged with the sentries and he was inside, passing the many prisoners-of-war, some milling on their rumps, others asleep on the ground. In the back sat the Serpent Monk with his legs crossed, a small wooden bowl emptied cleanly of its rice with the chopsticks planted tidily beside it, his wrists and ankles free off his restraints.

He waited, wondering whether to interrupt his old friend's meditation or—

"I can feel you standing there, Jaune," Ren said opening his eyes.

He let out a sigh and gestured at the dry dirt. "Would you like some company?"

A nod. "Yes, please. I believe we have much to catch up on."

"A lot," Jaune replied. "I've got all night."

"Where are the others?"

"They thought it would be better if you and I have a heart-to-heart before any of them did. Yang really wanted to talk to you, though."

Ren nodded. And chuckled. "Yes, I understand. I may need to offer my apologies to Yang for...disrupting her operations in the past."

Sergeant Arkos shrugged. "You sort that out with her. Now...where to begin?"

"Start with Beacon."

"Well...we got all night anyway so..."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 31, 2018**

 **LAST EDITED: January 3, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 3, 2019**

 **NOTE: And lo, the fourth horseman hath been unveiled.**

 **If any of you guys are interested, I actually drew them in their roles back when I was drafting Act III and uploaded them to DeviantArt. I have the same name there - _Konstantinsen_ \- and you can dig through my gallery to find them. Shameless plug, I know.**


	41. October 31, 1919

_October 31, 1919_

* * *

Weiss was and had always been the early bird of team RWBY, proudly mantling the responsibility of waking everyone else up and pestering them to prepare for the day ahead.

In this case, her tasks were simpler: fold up her bedroll, get dressed, and wake the rest of her comrades. It had been her standard routine for the past month that they spent traveling south together to Kwangtung with the Beiyang army. Out of respect to their gender and to the existing societal norms, the three girls agreed to share a large tent while Jaune pitched his own smaller hovel beside theirs.

She was about to nudge Blake when the cat faunus yawned awake. The two decided to leave Yang snoring for a bit; goodness knows she loved her beauty sleep. It would be an hour or two before the whole regiment would start disbanding the canton to march again. With her things packed and herself kitted up, she stepped outside and undid the flap of her partner's tent.

It was empty.

The white-haired girl spent the next ten minutes tersely asking questions and wandering the canton until she tracked him down in the prisoners' quarters listening to Ren relating...something.

"There you are!"

Jaune lazily turned his head. " _Bonjour_ , Fürstin."

Her hands were planted on her hips as she stared them down, both sporting dark bags under their eyes. "Have you two been chatting the whole night away?"

"We were catching up," Ren answered. "It has been a long two years."

"Are they serving breakfast?" the blonde sergeant asked.

Weiss pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "No. I apologize. I was...worried. I assumed the worst when I found you were absent from where you usually were."

"You really do care for each other," remarked the Serpent Monk.

"Yes. We do," Forked Lightning answered for her. "So, Weiss. Are you just going to stand there? You've already found me."

"Perhaps I can spare the time," the former heiress acceded. She squeezed down to sit on her ankles in the dirt. Conveniently close her partner. Then she reclined on his shoulder, letting her weight rest over his back. He had no complaints whatsoever.

Ren was silent for a while before inquiring, "Have you two develo—"

"How have you been?" Weiss interjected.

* * *

Jaune let out a long sigh. How long were they going to beat around the bush? At some point in the future, they would have to confront it. Now was not the right time to address this but he was getting more and more determined to corner Weiss to clear the air. Except...he was never really ready for the what he was going to get from her.

At this time, he would have to bear her chin resting on his shoulder and the rest of her over his right arm. As she often did lately. He was not as uncomfortable with it as he thought he would be. Then again, the lack of sleep made him care less. Besides, she was warm and he was feeling a little chilly despite the cramped spaces. It was refreshing to have another human being acting as sort of a blanket.

He caught Ren staring at him. And realized that he was staring at the smile he was sporting.

Forked Lightning cleared his throat. "So, Ren...that guy. He's pretty well-read, huh."

The Serpent Monk shook his head and shrugged. "Yes, he is. He has been without direction for a time but that has led him to experience many things. I was happy for him that he finally graduated last June. However, he has become so fiercely determined to his beliefs, I fear he might be dragged down dark paths."

"Who are we talking about here?" Weiss asked.

"Someone he met while traveling," Jaune replied, turning slightly so that his nose was inches from hers. "Smart guy named Mao Tse-tung."

* * *

Yang had been somber since starting her day. No teasing, no jokes, no puns. It went unnoticed, leading to many of the soldiers keeping their distance for fear of someone having 'angered the Dragon.' Weiss simply rolled her eyes and turned in her tray to the quartermaster so she could talk to the fiery brawler sulking under the canopy of a dead tree, far enough away from everyone else.

"Hey, Ice Queen," she greeted glumly.

"Yang. Is there something on your mind?"

"You know what today is?"

"October thirty...first..." Weiss deflated in realization. "Oh..."

"Yeah. Ruby's seventeen now. Wherever she is." On this morning, the mighty Anfu Dragon sounded so...defeated.

No. That would not do. The former heiress sat beside her. She squeezed her hand. "Be as it may, I am sure Ruby is...saving Remnant."

Yang let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, I'm sure she is. It's what she always wanted. To be like Summer. To be a hero." A sniffle. "Us? This is where we ended up. Dead to our friends and family back home but alive to no one but ourselves out here."

Weiss found herself agreeing readily. She never forgot Ruby. Perhaps it was delusion or homesickness that drove her to see more of her former partner in people like Anastasia and Alexei. "That may be so though don't forget that she's out there. Striving for us. Fighting for us."

"For the _memory_ of us," the Dragon corrected. "On Remnant, we're dead. Casualties on a list, names on some epitaph in a graveyard somewhere."

The white-haired girl straightened her back against the bark of the tree, her voice hardening slightly. "And would you let that bother you? Would you allow such a morose concept taint your resolve?"

"Wha...what? No!"

"Today is her birthday. Ruby would have wanted this day to be a day of celebration. It would do no good if we were to be moping about like this."

Yang stared at her. As speechless as a fish snatched out of the lake.

"I understand why you're feeling this way," Weiss continued. "But Ruby is out there carrying on our memory so others will never forget. Let's do the same here with as much vigor. Not just for her but ourselves as well."

Slowly, a smile began to creep across her features. The fiery brawler wrapped her fleshy arm around the former heiress and squeezed. "Thanks. That...that helped...a lot."

"Yes," she beamed back. "I'm glad it has."

With the moment over, Yang released her one-armed embrace with a livelier giggle. "Right. Wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea."

Weiss creased her brow. "Come again?"

"After all, you're pretty much taken," winked the Dragon before dashing back to the camp over the noise of her own laughter and leaving Lady Schnee sputtering incomplete words.

* * *

"You know," Yang piped as the four of them walked parallel to the main body of the infantry regiment. "I gotta give Ren a lot of respect."

"It took you this long enough to suck up your pride, huh," Blake said.

"Hey, no need to rub it in," the Dragon mumbled. "Guy traveled light and covered a lot of ground fast. Plus, I don't think you've ever covered the whole of Manchuria when you were up there for as long as I have."

"My AO was limited," the Ghost argued, "and the Japanese were breathing down my neck."

"I swear, you two argue over the most trivial of things," Weiss groaned, five paces back. While the journey from Macau to Lhasa was an incredible feat, it was attributed to Ren being wise. The Serpent Monk packed light, chose his roads, and sometimes relied on his acrobatic skills honed from his Huntsman training. Still, it was nothing to be overly boastful of. Anyone can travel between Macau and Lhasa by foot.

"Hey."

Fürstin angled her head at Jäger who had been following close behind, sweat beading down his forehead from the effort of carrying around that oversized forty-pound rifle of his. "Yes?"

Even while encumbered and slightly winded, he delivered enough of a presence to chill her with what he said, "I know we're not being straightforward about certain things."

She hoped Blake was too distracted by Yang's whining to hear this. "What do you mean?"

"We can't keep running circles around this."

Were they? She was aware of some aspects of her behavior towards him that could be easily misinterpreted by giddy, ignorant observers. That was as far as she was concerned. What was wrong with holding his hand? Stroking his back? Being more and more physical with their interactions? Weiss averted her gaze when she responded, "Now is not the right time to address this."

"When is?"

"Not today."

"Not tomorrow?"

"Not next week either," the former heiress nearly barked. "Jaune, I... I don't know if you...of how you would take it."

"Take what? Weiss, I want to drop the act. And I want you to do the same."

Her fists tightened, frustration building at how much she was failing to keep control of herself. "It's not an act."

Jaune stopped walking. "What?"

Weiss turned around. Lips quivering, glare harder than cement. "I'm sure you've noticed. We have been gallivanting in our own fantasies for far too long."

"What are you saying now?"

"I'm saying"—she stomped towards him—"that I meant every word of my cover."

* * *

The noise of the infantry trudging en masse down the highway faded from his ears. Jaune stared dumbly down at Weiss glowering (desperately?) up at him. He opened his mouth to speak. Then closed it. He dropped his jaw and clamped it shut. No words could come out.

"I hope you have been paying attention, Jaune," his partner hissed.

His brain registered the minute blobs of tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. " _Oui_. _J'ai remarqu_ _é_."

She continued to glare at him. As though she was expecting him to retort. Daring him to speak. Yet he remained muted until he caught Yang waving at them both from further up ahead. Noticing this, Weiss wordlessly dabbed her cheeks with her sleeve and turned on her heels to continue along the march.

Jaune was unsure now what to think. He doubted what could very well be a definitive conclusion. His feet carried on automatically even as his mind began to process why it was so difficult to embrace what their relationship had evolved into. His partner's vague behavior was not making this any easier for him.

He slowed his pace to allow for a wide berth to extend between them, keeping her out of earshot of the curses he muttered to himself under his breath. Peering back onto the horizon, he caught Blake peeking over her shoulder at him with a concerned look.

"I know you can hear me," the blonde sergeant remarked quietly. "I know you heard what we talked about."

Twenty paces away, Blake nodded in reply.

* * *

Sergeant Arkos was refilling his canteen by the creek down from where the regiment had set up camp for the evening when he heard boots crunching into the mud. In his peripheries, he traced Blake stoop down to do the same. Neither of them bothered to meet the other in the eye.

"Ruby's birthday. Can't believe we've been here this long," the cat faunus began.

Jaune hummed back.

"Ruby at seventeen. She probably would have really liked to see you and Weiss together."

He froze with his hands still dipped into the cold water.

The pregnant pause hung between them before Blake asked, "You feel the same way she does about you, don't you?"

He remained crouched on the embankment, staring at his conflicted image rippling in the flowing stream. "Is it obvious?"

"To anyone who pries." He heard splashing. Blake was probably washing up. "When are you going to tell her?"

"When this is all over."

"That could take a while."

Silence.

"Be honest with me. Do you really feel the that way for her?"

"... _Oui_."

"You're both the same. You're both too proud."

He nodded at his own reflection. "No argument there."

"Weiss is normally blunt about everything. Almost everything. If she won't say it, she'll show it. Knowing her, she probably has no idea how to get the message across other than throwing money in your face until you get it."

"Yeah, I got that," Jaune rebutted. How could he forget the many moments Weiss exploited to be so physically close to him. Under the guise of their own disguise. It was a near mirror of what he had with Pyrrha. And it made him paranoid towards a possible repeat of history. "Unlike before, I saw this coming. I know what this is turning out to be."

"And you're going to ignore it?"

He stood and trudged back up the trail to the camp, not once bothering to meet her interrogative gaze. "Not for long. Things will be different this time."

"One of you has to break the stalemate."

Sergeant Ionas Arkos paused mid-step, head dipped and shoulders sagged. He breathed deep. "Fine. _Je l'aime_ , Blake. _J'aime_ Weiss _tellement_."

With that, he left before the Ghost could say anything more. He kept trudging wordlessly through the canton towards his tent where he immediately retired for the night.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 5, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: January 6, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 6, 2019**

 **NOTE: It was very tempting to deviate from my outline. So many details that screamed for attention.**

 **Anyway, we are nearing the pivotal confrontation. Hope you guys enjoyed so far.**

* * *

 **Translation:**

 ** _Oui_. _J'ai remarqu_ _é_. = Yes. I noticed. [French]**


	42. November 27, 1919

_November 27, 1919_

* * *

It had been a long, onerous, and largely uneventful march back to the outskirts of Peking.

While they were capable of covering more ground on their own, the four Remnant mercenaries were bound by service to stay within sight and mind of the regular troops. And Weiss could tell that the poor young men were striving as best they could to march on at a quicker pace even with their own officers whipping them to move faster.

She pitied them, really. Even though they were bloodied by battle, they were still boys barely in their twenties. There was only so much their bodies could do before they gave in.

The conscripts outnumbered the volunteers while many of the older veterans had been active bandits in the hinterlands of the country. The dubious loyalty was another factor that constantly put her on edge as she was aware of how many of these soldiers would return to brigandry as soon as they were discharged or their regiment disbanded.

Her suspicions continued throughout their journey. Rumors of political conspiracies echoed through the ranks. Some of the men were casting wary glances their way, showcasing more and more distrust for the 'mysterious foreigners' and prompting them to literally distance themselves more and more from the regiment. Mainly out of security. It did not help that their obvious friendship with Ren—a former enemy—was watering the flowers of discord.

Such issues were among many that concerned her. Then there was one which was...well, more frustrating than worrisome.

"Have you eaten?"

" _Oui_."

"Have you had enough sleep?"

" _Oui_."

"Do you need help with your equipment?"

" _Non_."

"You're not ill feeling, are you? There's a deadly flu ravaging the world right now and there have been people quarantined as far as Tientsin."

"I am fine and healthy, Weiss. I'm pretty sure everyone else is, too."

Unsatisfied, the former heiress reached up to flatten the creases lining her partner's collar, taking her time brushing off specs of dirt. "You at least need to be presentable. Keeping up appearances helps with morale and shapes public perception."

Jaune groaned. "Does it matter?"

She scowled. "Out of respect and consideration for the public. We may be soldiers of fortune but we must at least put in effort to assuage the population."

"I can dress myself, thank you very much." Then he departed with his rifle and his field kit.

Weiss remained in the tent. Blake and Yang had their things packed neatly in the corner while they went to collect breakfast. She was alone now. As she usually felt despite the company.

It was his stubbornness, not her lack of effort. She was trying. She really was. Yet why was he being so...resistant? Reciprocation was better than ignorance! At least tell her that he recognized her efforts. Even a rebuff was enough!

She sat down on a wooden box and stared at the orange sky petering over the Peking skyline. Perhaps there was more to his hardheadedness.

Was it because she was reminding him so much of Pyrrha?

Of his failures at Beacon?

Of his fear of loss?

Of losing her?

Lady Schnee could not have felt anymore upset than she was this morning. The rest of the day went as it did the last: mind-numbing walking with nothing more than short sentences spoken to even her own partner.

* * *

This mound offered a decent view of the central plains, the Yongting River, and the city of Peking that lay beyond it, bathed in the glow of the setting sun. They had cut through the country's central plains in record time and was now only separated by a blue line that ran down from the western mountains to the Pacific Ocean. One more day of marching and they would be back home. Temporary home, that is.

Sergeant Arkos squatted on the soil. So many things ran through his mind as he stared through his monocle towards the shape of the walls surrounding the Legation Quarter and the Forbidden City. There was Ren's incarceration for being an enemy to the Beiyang Republic. Complicated further by the mixed signals he was getting from the SSB. Not to mention the Japanese creeping ever so slowly on them, probably over their stolen intelligence. Then again, at this point with Blake in service, Ren in custody, and Adam's whereabouts unknown, such information was rendered redundant.

"They're going to keep Ren chained up for a couple months at most," Yang greeted, coming up to the mound and sitting next to him.

Jaune nodded. Top priority was getting his old friend out of his binds as peacefully as possible. That did not mean he would not resort to a desperate jailbreak to get him out.

"They're going to try and get everything they can out of him," the Dragon continued, "I don't think he'd be giving them much to work with, anyway."

"He won't have anything to give."

She pulled up her knees to her chest, looking more sullen than before. "I hope they get the hint before they start throwing punches. It...it sucks having to let him go through that. While we sit back all comfy and wait for it to stop. Ugh! I still can't get over what they did to you guys."

He caught in his peripheries the clenched fist gripping the blades of grass. "Hey. Anything we can do to help speed up the process?"

The Dragon seethed. "I wish. Boss says 'no' more than he says 'yes' even when I'm asking."

A nod. "Ren's tough. He's had worse."

Yang stared at him. Then dipped her head in defeat. "That's...one way to put it. It's just...really weird how we're so chill with letting our friends get beaten up for a couple weeks."

"Won't stop me from trying to get him out as soon as possible." His glare hardened at the skyline. "If the only option left is to blast a hole in the wall to get him out, then so be it."

"You're going to risk blowing your cover?"

He huffed with a bitter smirk, finger drawing circles in the grass. "The SSB wants to swing you guys over to their side. The telegrams are vague about it but with the world the way it is, the whole picture isn't that hard to put together. The Great War took out the biggest rivals the British had so they're going all out to stay on top while everyone else is on the ground licking their wounds."

"What about the French? Weren't you guys allies with the British? And the Americans?"

"For now."

"That's...cryptic."

"I'm just being a realist," Jaune answered dryly. "Besides, you guys are already accounted for. We don't have much to lose."

"What about Adam?"

"He's improved the same way we all had. For all we know, he's far deadlier now than before. And we need all of us in top condition and fitted with better gear if we're going to go after him."

"You don't think they'd let you off the hook until you got him, do you?"

"Then we'll have to make do." He leaned back as he added quietly, "Anything to put this all to rest."

Yang hummed in agreement. "Right. So...say we finally get Ren free. What then?"

The blonde sergeant took the moment to look around. They had set up their tents far enough away from the infantry. Additionally, those few who could understand English were busy yelling orders to get the conscripts up on their feet.

"Assuming the worst? We shelter with the British legation until we're extracted," he relayed.

"You think Hillard will even get us out?"

"He has to. Otherwise, he'd risk his own neck by terminating this operation after we've gotten this far with this much progress. 'Three potential assets for His Majesty,' as he'd put it. Worst case scenario is he gives us newer orders."

The fiery brawler studied him mutedly for a minute. Then said, "This won't be as simple as it sounds."

"It never is," he drawled.

The Dragon folded her arms. "There's also one more thing that I think you need to take care of."

Forked Lightning raised his brow. "What?"

"You and Ice Queen."

* * *

Weiss had never intended to be standing where she was, hidden within earshot of her SSB partner and old Beacon teammate discussing something.

She had only gone out to stretch her legs after setting up their bunks and to find Blake to get dinner from the cooks down in the canton. It just so happened that she caught sight of the two blondes sitting on the mound not far from their campsite. Neither envy nor doubt was the reason why she quietly strode up to the tree to listen in on what they were conversing. She was only curious. Or so she convinced herself she was.

"... I'm not stupid," she heard Yang retort. "Blake sees it too."

"Yeah," her partner answered glumly. "She talked to me about it. On Ruby's birthday."

Weiss pressed herself against the bark.

"Look," the Dragon said. "We've been hiking up and down the country for a month now. We practically work together as a team. Hell, our tents are right next to each other. She had a lot of time to try and get closer to you and you had about as much to do the same. But you held back."

"It's...complicated."

"You're being a pussy."

"So what? We had a job to do."

Yang let out an angry groan. "And we did do our job. Even then, you could have at least broken the ice."

"I tried, okay?" he barked. "For your information, _she_ was holding off."

Weiss deflated. That much was true. She had slipped into her failsafe. Hearing Yang argue back for her sake drew her back to what she was listening to.

"She was nervous! I know her."

"I wanted her...to stop the charades," Jaune answered coolly. "I wanted to clear the air."

"Uh-huh. And she acted in typical Weiss fashion."

"Pretty much."

A long sigh. "You two both need some work."

"I'm trying."

"And so is she." She gestured with her mechanical arm at the horizon. "Safe haven is right across the river, right there with those lights, only half a day away. Are you really going to keep Weiss waiting until then?"

"It's for the best."

Was it? The former heiress wanted to speak out, reveal her presence. Yet, she remained rooted behind her cover.

"She pretty much confessed to you."

"... Yeah. She did."

Actions did speak louder than words and the white-haired girl was aware of how much was said with what she had been doing for him.

"She wants to up your 'relationship' another level."

"I'm not ready for it."

Weiss held her breath. Not ready for it? Not ready for giving this relationship a chance? Not ready for a lifetime partner? Not ready for...

Lady Schnee slumped against the bark. For months, she was head over heels for him. She cared for him deeply, understanding exactly why she volunteered to help. She...she... She loved him. She loved him so much. And he was feeling the same. Yet was afraid to commit. Was it too soon? Was it too much? Would they be better off as friends until they were free of this espionage business?

Could she wait that long until then?

"I'm sorry, Weiss," Jaune called out.

Weiss stayed where she was, leaning against the trunk of the tree and ignoring Yang's gasp and string of apologies. The guilt of eavesdropping was dwarfed by the odd pain in her chest. She stared at the grass, the rays of dusk shrouded by his shadow encompassing her, until he had crouched in front of her.

"Weiss?" he called again, tired blue orbs searching hers.

"... Am I trying too hard?" she croaked. "Am I too much?"

" _Non_ , _non_."

She looked up at him. Maybe subtlety had been the wrong approach. Maybe it had been too much. Maybe she should have just admitted to him then and there, back in that hospital in Arkhangelsk, before he walked down those steps to take command of his own squadron...

He reached out to her. "Hey."

She cupped his hand as it rested on her shoulder. Her lip quivered. And her chest hurt. "Can we at least...try?"

Jaune appeared conflicted. As though he had been slapped. He gazed blankly at something distant, answering, "I guess so."

Weiss squeezed, snapping him back to her. "... _Ty znaesh_... _Da_?"

He tilted his head. And nodded slowly.

" _Ty znaesh_... _chto ya_... _ya lyublyu tebya_."

He stared at her.

The former heiress could hear the seconds ticking by in her head, wondering if what she had done, what she had said was the right—

Two large arms surrounded her, pulling her in. Over Jaune's shoulder, she could see Yang standing there, the expression on her face switching between shock and amusement. Then relief. Weiss felt something within her break loose. Her arms wormed around her partner, tugging, completing the embrace.

They stayed that way long after Yang, smiling, left them there.

* * *

Dinner went by in silence as the two of them watched the sunset together.

Both leaned against the tree, one resting her head on the other's shoulder. And Jaune wondered whether or not this was a good thing. It certainly lifted the boulder he had been carrying since that cold day in Arkhangelsk...replaced only by a heavyweight feather.

They had both agreed to cross a line. Though they did not talk about it, or anything at all, the extended hug was enough to tell everything. Soon, the stars were up in the sky and by then Weiss had drifted to sleep on his side.

Carefully, he carried her to her tent. He laid her down and tucked her in, mindful not to disturb the snoring Dragon and the slumbering Ghost. He released her crown and pulled up the covers. He brushed away strands of her loosed hair from her face.

" _Je t'aime_ ," he whispered before he planted a kiss on her cheek.

Then he left their tent and went to bed in his own next to theirs.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 5, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: January 8, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 8, 2019**

 **NOTE: I'm not that good with writing these kinds of sappy scenes. But hey, it was worth the effort and I'm satisfied with how it turned out. Granted, I am open to notes for improvement when it comes to emotional inter-character stuff like this. I'm no expert mainly because I haven't experienced this kind of stuff. Yet.**

 **Some of you may have been expecting something bombastic after all the build-up. Well, there is something bombastic coming but it's something else. And it's coming in the next chapter...assuming I don't deviate from my outline again and pump out an in-betweener.**

 **Other than that, a hoorah (finally) for Jaune and Weiss.**

 **For now.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Ty znaesh... Da**_ **? = You know... Don't you? [Russian]**


	43. November 28, 1919

_November 28, 1919_

* * *

The former heiress had been through enough trouble her life to be able to sense something rearing its ugly head.

"I don't trust them," Blake muttered to her as they prodded along the crowded streets of Peking, escorted by a battalion of the city guard.

Oh how familiar those words were. Weiss herself remembered uttering the same to Anastasia Romanova back in Yekaterinburg. She gripped the hilt of her saber throughout their march through the streets of Peking where the crowds were none the wiser of the bloody battle that had been fought in the south.

For some unmentionable reason, the infantry regiment they had traveled with were ordered to establish their canton south of the city, along the northern banks of the Yongting River. The four of them were then escorted into the Beiyang capital by a different contingent of soldiers along with the Kuomintang prisoners-of-war.

"We'll get you out of those chains, buddy," Jaune assured Ren.

"Don't worry about me," the Serpent Monk replied as he was led away down a divergent road towards the penal facilities. "Go, Jaune. Do your duty. I will hold steadfast until then."

"You will have time to chat with your friend later," barked a familiar voice. Weiss scowled upon seeing once again that calloused colonel who had handled their interrogation. He gestured at the grand Meridian Gate, its massive doors open to allow entry into the Forbidden City. "You four. Follow me. We will discuss the results of your mission."

Yang shook her head. "What a thankless job."

"I thought you got used to it," the blonde sergeant remarked.

"After that bloodbath? I expect a banquet for wrecking a whole army," groused the Dragon. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

Weiss held her breath when they strolled into the grounds of the ancient district that had once been the home of the Imperial Chinese nobility. She felt uneasy with the many soldiers standing at attention and marching about. A closer look revealed they were not the common draftees. They were older, some bearing battle scars and unkempt facial hair, wearing steely miens unlearned by vigorous youth. Veterans? Experienced fighters being rotated from Mongolia and other conflict hotspots?

The colonel stopped abruptly before turning around on his heel. "Sergeant Arkos, please come with me. You understand that I must debrief you all individually. The rest of you wait in the hall there. Food has been prepared for you."

Something in that statement set off alarm bells in the back of Weiss's mind. She wanted to protest but Jaune had already agreed. He nodded back at them, at her, and walked away with the officer and several escorts to the Imperial Garden. That left them with a contingent of troops under the command of an unsmiling lieutenant. Said lieutenant started barking orders to which Yang conveniently translated to them being herded away into one of the intricately designed palatial halls to await their turn.

Weiss kept mum, never once letting go of the hilt of her sword. She glanced at Blake who returned her worry with her own doubtful expressions. Something was very wrong here. The banquet laid out on the long tables exclusively for them did little to assuage her concerns. Rather, the succulent meals reminded her of something dreadful she may have experienced in the past.

"Eat, eat," insisted one of the soldiers, complete with a stiff gesture at the steaming bowls of meat and lentils.

SSB agent Fürstin glanced at her teammates to find that Yang had already sat down and was gorging herself. "Yang!"

"What? I'm hungry!"

Was it too late? Weiss reached for Blake after the latter had sipped a few spoonfuls of her own serving. The former then noticed the slices of cooked fish floating in the broth.

No. This was all too familiar. For the sake of polity, Weiss seated herself on the cushions but refrained from picking up so much as a spoon, her grip still on her weapon, her fingers on the floor. She opened her mouth to warn her teammates...and then she saw it. The nervousness leaking from the servants standing along the pillars. The quick shifty glances shared between the many guards surrounding them. Too many. The lieutenant began to shift in his spot.

"Hey," Yang croaked. "I don't...feel so good..."

Blake dropped her bowl, spilling the soup over the floor, horror and belated realization plastered over her face. She tried to get up only to fall back down, crumpling from the sudden debilitating pain in her stomach, too weak to draw her dual blades.

For Weiss? It was that jail cell in Arkhangelsk all over again.

Her saber was already out of its sheath and pointed to their 'escorts.' Glyphs appeared underneath them before they could pounce. She was quick on her feet and quicker with her Semblance. In moments, she had dispatched the two dozen soldiers surrounding them.

"Blake! Yang!"

More voices, more bodies pouring into the hall. More guns aimed her way. Weiss used her Semblance to throw up the long banquet tables, spilling food and drink on the floor and forming a palisade to protect her and her immobilized teammates. They started firing. Bit by bit, the table splintered from the hail of bullets. She heard noise behind her and dodged the volley of lead coming from the reinforcements appearing on her exposed flanks.

The hall quickly cluttered with more and more of Marshal Chi-jui's elite guard. There was only so much maneuverable space. The more she fought back, the more came in. It seemed as though the mass of troops on the parade grounds were waiting for their turn to be mauled by her glyphs, uncaring of their rising casualties. Too many foes, too little strength to deal with them all.

She forced open the double doors where the courtyard was abuzz with activity. She turned around to find her steps covered by three rows of troops. Further back, a fourth row was dragging away the unresponsive Blake and Yang.

No. No, no, no! Damn it!

There was only so much she could do. There were too many of them. Even with her Semblance, there was no way she could fight past them to get her two friends out, let alone heft their limp forms away. Weiss shut her eyes tight to hold back the pained tears trickling down her cheeks. The option now was to abandon her teammates. Her sisters. Damn it! Now was not the time to weep for her failure! Focus!

Escape. Find Jaune. Rescue Yang and Blake. Break Ren out of custody. Flee Peking to...somewhere. Flee to the Legation Quarter!

Fürstin took a deep breath and stepped onto the bannister. A glyph expanded below her and began to spin. Such a sight was enough to startle her pursuers enough to buy time to propel herself away from the range of their fire towards where she believed her partner had gone.

* * *

The pops of gunfire cracking over the sky made Jaune freeze in his tracks.

He turned around to the walls of the inner court of the Forbidden City, partially shrouded by the canopies of the sprawling gardens. Then he heard the faint yet telltale click of a round being primed to fire. Colonel Asshole grunted in annoyance several paces behind him, an obvious signal to their bodyguards who turned on their heels and took aim. Even more emerged from behind the trees, ready to shoot.

SSB agent Jäger tried to unsling his rifle as fast as he could.

The colonel pulled the trigger first. Followed by the two dozen soldiers opening fire on him from almost everywhere.

* * *

Weiss was moving on adrenaline. Every step was boosted by her Semblance, enabling her to speed over the maze of thatched roofs, evading the bullets whizzing in her wake. She wove closer to the Imperial Garden, where Jaune was headed. She was forced to abandon two of her friends, she would be damned if she so much as left behind another one!

She propelled herself off the gutter to land atop the branches in one of the trees. She searched around, head whipping back and forth, desperately seeking her partner—there!

Movement. Dark shapes.

The former heiress, in an impressive mimicry of Blake's acrobatic skills, leapt from tree to tree until she landed panting and wheezing atop the large gazebo, offering her a clearer view of...

Pop! Pop-pkow-pop-pkow-pkow!

Weiss nearly dropped her saber in abject horror.

The soldiers kept shooting. And shooting. And shooting. Some of them reloaded after the first volley, took one step closer, and fired again. Every burst from each gun stung more than the last. The thickening smoke of spent gunpowder could not conceal the flinching, bleeding, and helpless body lying on the ground.

Tears fell from her eyes with her ragged breaths. No, no, no! Stop! _Stop_!

Clutching her sword, she sprang forth poised to carve these degenerates to pieces—

Only for a dark red blur to whiz by her vision. And jab her hard in the gut to send her flying back into the gazebo. Pain rocketed throughout her body upon contact with the concrete. She picked herself up in time to see her assailant step out into the sunlight.

"Schnee," he hissed.

Weiss planted the blade into the ground to help her stand. "... You..."

Adam Taurus smirked, drawing his katana. "Even here, you work to oppress the weak."

She bared her teeth. "You...you're delusional..."

"Only to ruthless overlords such as yourself," he growled. "Those you stamp under your heel will rise up. And finish what the Red Army failed to do."

The white-haired girl gawked at him, digging the tip of the blade deeper into the marble floor. "You...you work for the Bolsheviks now?"

He scoffed at her. "They are fools. They are all fools. Such a belief would carry them so far."

"Whose side are you even on!?"

"The side that suits my interests." With that, the bull faunus sped forward, glistening steel coming for her throat.

Clang!

The noise in the Imperial Garden ceased momentarily. A stiff silence permeated over the grass as the soldiers, astounded by what they were witnessing, felt their legs wobble. Weiss controlled her breathing long enough for the massive shimmering ligament to throw Adam back.

It was but an arm. A large, gauntleted arm surrounded in bright blue hues, tiny orbs of light flaking off the glyph summoning it. The hand alone was not the threat; rather, it was the massive blade that it wielded. It swung, knowing where to hit.

Clang! Cling! Shrrk!

Adam held back the incomplete construct despite his katana reduced to half its length. His exposed jaw tightened into an outraged grimace.

Weiss felt control in her partial familiar and abused it as much she could. Swipe, strike, parry, feint, attack. Step by step, she gained ground. Closer and closer towards the bullet-ridden body laying in the middle of the trail. She had to get him. She had to rescue him! She had to get them all out!

Bang!

She shrieked.

Pop-pkow-pop!

She dropped prone, clutching her side where a bullet had collided with her Aura. Her skin was still in tact but the pain from the impact of the cartridge, falling crumpled onto the floor, was no different than getting shot through and through. Consequently, her construct suffered and the split-second weakness was enough for Adam to exploit.

The former heiress, however, was sharper. She leapt out of the way of his incoming strike only to clumsily stumble backwards onto the cold, hard ground. Hand still on her side, she raised her sword to block the strike. Steel met steel, his strength against hers. His was greater. Her saber was torn from her grip, tossed errantly away by a swing from a broken blade.

"Now, you suffer," Adam declared.

Weiss was stunned. This can't be it. This cannot be the end! She had survived so much only for it all to end like this!? No! She lifted her palm before her as a glyph flickered in existence.

Then a body flew right into it. Adam's. Pushed into her Semblance by another body. One that collided into him as a result of some strong force.

Fürstin leaned against a pillar, clutching her side, gaping at the bloody clenched fist of her battered partner Jäger glowing. Faintly. A last ounce of Aura infused into a punch so great it sent the man dragging him flying into the bull faunus, knocking them down like rag dolls. Before the rest of the soldiers swarmed him again, he yelled at her at the top of his lungs.

"Run!"

She didn't want to. She adamantly refused. Yet her legs suddenly carried her across the grass. Her mind protested, her heart beat fast, her eyes flashed anew with tears as she sprinted for the life of her. She ran away. Away from the Imperial Gardens, away from the Forbidden City, away from Adam Taurus and the Beiyang army.

Away from Blake, Yang, Ren, and Jaune.

* * *

Weiss ran and ran. She exhausted her Semblance, boosting every step until she landed gracelessly within the Legation Quarter, paying little mind to which district was in. She kept moving, ignoring the astounded bystanders and the bewildered patrols, quickly coming upon the street that led to Yang's mansion. Safe haven.

She turned the corner and—

No!

She immediately backtracked into an alley, out of sight of the mass of Japanese troops kicking the gates down and storming the estate, diplomatic immunity be damned. It would only be a matter of time before they break into the basement and discover their hoard of incriminating evidence.

Fleeting moments whizzed by with the noise from the raid overcoming the noise from the gathering crowd of spectators. No place was safe. Weiss sped out of the alley, darting through the crowds. A squad of Western soldiers trailed her, tried to stop her, to reach her, but she leapt off the road into the Imperial Canal, landing so roughly against the solidifying mud that she would have snapped her ankles had it not been for her Aura.

Dirty, sullied, unarmed, the former heiress slugged waist-deep through the freezing quagmire, sticking close to the walls and hugging the shadows. She came to shelter under a concrete bridge and stayed there, pulling her knees up to her face so she could be as small as possible. She did not know how long she had been fleeing. Or whether or not she was still being pursued. She stopped to care now that she was pathetically huddled up under here, sulking in the smelly shadows amid the trash and refuse. The noise of the world above her faded under her own ragged breaths.

Weiss sat there. Folded into herself. Broken. Alone.

Her teammates...taken. She had abandoned them. There was no excuse for it. She could have taken the risks—damnable, deadly risks—and fought to get them out. Yet she did not. She chose to flee. Left them behind to be taken away and interrogated, tortured, incarcerated...executed.

What kind of person did that make her to be? What 'friend' she was. What 'partner' she was. Truly a model 'agent.' A turncoat caring only for her own skin—as what the Schnee had come to be defined in the world she had been ripped from.

She wiped her eyes, unable to erase the vivid images Jaune being destroyed. Torn up by incessant gunfire. Like a sack of potatoes left at the mercy of bored psychopaths with rifles. Battered, bleeding, bludgeoned until there was nary a hint of movement. There was nothing she could do for him now. No map. No weapon. No food. Barely enough money to get her by. Only her dwindling energy, her fragile Aura, her finite Semblance.

"Get a grip, Weiss!" she commanded herself despite her mourning. Deep breaths, deep breaths. "You are a Schnee." Deep breath. "You've been through worse." Sniffle. Deep breath. "Formulate a plan." Fists clenched. Cheeks moist from crying in the gutter. "Can't hide for much longer."

Where could she go to now?

She could run to the British. It seemed the safest route. But she was lost and was not that much familiar with the streets of these districts despite the time her team spent taking refuge here. Shelter among the Russians? No thank you. Their place was a wreck. Sneak her way around to the French sector? The Italians? The Dutch?

"Hey. Hey!"

Weiss snapped up and nearly threw the tall man back with a glyph. She held back when she registered his voice. The shadow inched closer with his hands raised.

"At ease, Fürstin."

What? How did he know her alias? Very few people in the SSB knew that! She pressed herself against the mortar, conjuring a small rotating glyph shimmering between them.

" _Repos_ , _repos_!" he ordered. "Stand down!"

Weiss held her breath. She shrunk her shield. "Identify yourself!"

The man, crouching to squeeze into her bubble, flicked on a lighter. In the dim glow, the tiny flame outlined hideous scars stretching over half of a human head, eternal evidence of shrapnel violently ripping through what had once been a handsome chiseled face. A recognizable chiseled face. "Wächter, Wächter."

Fürstin was astounded. Her relief was uncertain. "No! Y-y-you died!"

"I thought I did," snorted the still-breathing, still-living Lieutenant Thibald 'Wächter' Vastel. "Come with me. Now. We will escort you to the ministry."

"How can I be sure of this!?" snapped the exhausted agent. For all she knew, this could be but a nightmarish hallucination borne from her fatigue. In reality, she could be talking to empty air, or worse, a Japanese soldier. "Stay back!"

Vastel growled. He grabbed her wrist, unfazed by the threatening circle that quickly puffed out, and pulled her out from under the bridge. Into view of three other men standing above in beige battle dress. A foreign patrol, no doubt. She wanted to resist, break free from his grasp but the strange familiarity of these men...

" _Sergent_!" the lieutenant barked.

Said sergeant stooped low to grab her and hoist her up along with the two other men, one of whom bore a striking resemblance to someone she...had...met...

" _Ma'amselle_!" she heard him gasp.

Weiss was speechless when they draped a blanket over her. Vastel clamored over the ledge behind and began guiding them back to the British Legation.

A clearer glimpse of their faces broke the deadlock on her lips. "Bazouille!? _Que fais-tu ici_!?"

Baz shushed her with a smile. "Rest now. Talk later."

* * *

The entire district occupied by the British Legation was on high alert with the diversity of the security forces painting a painfully reminiscent scene: British, French, and largely American troops patrolled nearly every bloc with zigzagging sandbags and make-shift fortifications transforming the straight-lane streets into winding mazes.

Weiss was guided along into the main ministry offices where she was reintroduced to the man who had led them down this path in the first place. And thus he was responsible for the situation they were in. No, _he_ was responsible for the absolute hell they went through. Her blood, Jaune's blood, the blood of every person involved since the day they rode into Mongolia was on him.

"Good to see you alive and well, Fürstin."

She did not hold back this time. Her reflexes were faster than her escorts. In less than a blink of an eye, SSB Major Wilfred Hillard was suspended in the air by a large rotating glyph, his limbs outstretched and held in place, his face baring pure shock and horror down at her. That fear, that absolute fear, was enough to placate her wrath in the brief moment of freedom before Vastel and many others tackled her to the floor.

" _Fils de pute_! Stand down, stand down!" the lieutenant screamed into her ear with his knee digging into her spine and his burly hands keeping her wrists behind her back.

The glyph dissipated and Hillard dropped to the floor, panting and wide-eyed. It was an image that Weiss relished, instilling the vivid emotion into her memory, to be replayed over and over again. That is a taste of what would happen to anyone who would cross a Schnee in this world.

"... By God, woman," the major breathed after finding his voice. That cheeky, arrogant poise returned though tainted by her threatening display. "Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned."

"Let go of me!" Weiss fumed as she was brought up from the floor, her arms restrained by four pairs of hands. "You! Fix this mess or so help me I will paint the walls with you!"

"Stand down, Fürstin!" growled Vastel who struggled to hold her back. "Behave yourself!"

The former heiress breathed deep to calm herself. She traced the details on the large map of China pinned to the wall—much larger and more intricately detailed than what Yang put together in her basement—with greater emphasis placed on the Chinese Eastern Railway. Brightly-colored pins were tacked along the route than ran from Peking, the capital of Beiyang China, to Dairen, an enclave of the Empire of Japan.

"Better now?" Hillard asked.

Weiss felt freedom in her limbs, casting a withering glare at Vastel before spitting back at her direct superior, "You. This is your operation. All of this, all of the suffering we've endured...this is all on you."

He appeared unfazed. The smug bastard. "As it stands. Now that you are here, we can finally move forward with our next course of action."

"I beg your pardon!" the former heiress shrieked. How dare he ignore the casualties Erzengel has suffered! How dare he forget her friends, how dare he so callously disregard them! "I have had enough of your insanity!"

"There is a method to my madness."

"Blake and Yang were recaptured, Ren is in chains and...and..." She bit her lip even as the tears started to trickle anew. "Jaune. He...he..."

In her peripheries, Bazouille inched closer in fearful curiosity. Backed by Avi. And Gosse. And the rest of Jaune's old squadron from Arkhangelsk—Sabenoux, Gaspard, Yver, Tubrin. Astonishingly, they were all here in the legation. They all wanted to know what happened to their sergeant.

"They...they shot him. They kept shooting him," she croaked. "I tried to stop them."

The hall fell deathly silent. The ticking of the hanging clocks echoed until heavy boots shuffled towards her, ending with a different voice asking, "Pardon, _ma'amselle_. He is still alive. Yes?"

Weiss looked up from the floor to the sergeant who accompanied her back here with Vastel. Her throat was dry but she managed to answer him. "Yes. Yes, he is. I still hope that he is. He told me to run. And I did."

The man turned around to address Jaune's squadron. He barked something at them and the doldrums seemed to have been banished. They nodded in agreement, determination on full display.

" _Sergent_ André Laval, _ma'amselle_ ," the sergeant introduced. "I was assigned to continue your husband's duties in Russia when he was transferred here. I do not doubt you tried your best to save him."

Weiss had heard clearly the word 'husband' but at that point cared less to correct it. "I...I tried."

"But he is still alive," Laval insisted. "There is still hope."

"Hope as long as _he_ "—the white-haired girl pointed an accusative finger at Hillard—"has a solution to this!"

"We have," Vastel interjected, stepping between them. Mainly to ensure that she would not blow up again. "You are calm now?"

Weiss was unhappy. She was still angry. Nary an ounce of contentment graced her features. Which explained her cold response. "Yes. I am calm. Calm and complacent. Lieutenant."

That seemed to placate the larger disfigured veteran. "Good. Stay here. I will get something for you."

"What are you going to do now, then?" she growled, even after Vastel had disappeared behind a closed door. "Send me back out there? Order me to go in the other direction while my friends are tortured? Assassinate some petty mark halfway across the continent?"

"That depends," Hillard remarked insouciant. "Your comrades would not be suffering for long."

Her glower hardened. "I do not like your tone."

"I am merely being optimistic," he deflected. "Consider that we have abandoned neither your team nor your fellow...Huntsmen."

"And what are you doing then?" she countered, flailing at the map on the wall. "Yang's mansion has been raided. For all I know, the intel we've gathered is compromised. Rendered irrelevant because they are changing their movements, shifting their strategies, breaking patterns. We are back to square one and you chose _now_ of all times to show up!? And what in the world is all this? Roadmaps, landmarks?"

"A rescue mission."

She gawked at him. "You cannot be serious."

The major harrumphed. "Care to join? There is room for one more agent."

Weiss was speechless. This level of preparedness was unexpected. She expected an extended debriefing, accommodation and withdrawal, a drawn-out drafting phase to determine how to deal with the crises. Somehow, Hillard was two and three steps ahead. He knew this was going to happen. He knew and was already enacting some kind of safety net. This man was unbelievable.

"You already have teams trained for this?" she blurted out after a while.

"Trained and equipped," Wächter retorted.

Weiss spun around to be greeted with the ornate hilt of a rapier offered to her by Vastel. Hesitantly, she took it, taking in the weight and length. She sized up the eight men standing behind him, all members of Jaune's squadron. Under the command of his replacement Sergeant Laval. " _You_ are the rescue team?"

" _Oui_ , _ma'amselle_ ," Laval answered evenly.

"How...you...what is..."

"Overwhelmed or underwhelmed?" snickered Hillard. "With what little we can spare, they are our best shot at this. They would not mind another member. Especially one as experienced and familiar with the captives as you are."

Weiss stared at the eight men idling in around them. "You all took the train? From Arkhangelsk? From Moskva!?"

"It was an interesting trip," Laval replied. "After all, our duties back in the north were mostly patrolling up and down the Dvina River and ferrying supplies to the front. And the Bolsheviks were getting bolder, the weather much worse."

"And yet you decided to travel through miles of enemy territory all the way here?" the former heiress questioned. "You could have all gone home. You could have...how did... Ugh! How did you even slip past the Red Army? Did you have disguises?"

"Major Hillard informed us that Forked Lightning was in trouble and needed help." The sergeant gestured at the squadron with a proud smile. "Who am I to argue against their wishes? I myself look up to him. _Capitaine_ Causson agreed. On time as well. Had he hesitated a day longer and we would have been caught on the tracks by the Red Army conducting an offensive. You could say we are the last Western passengers to have had the luxury of crossing Siberia through the Trans-Siberian Railway."

She snapped back to the major who flashed her a prideful beam. "I made the offer, they volunteered," he quipped.

SSB agent Fürstin regarded him with disbelief. "Do you even have a plan?"

SSB agent Aufseher flashed her a dark grin that overshadowed the confidence in his voice. "Milady, it is already in the works."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 8, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: January 22, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 13, 2019**

 **NOTE: This was a lengthy one. As I have said before, a lot can happen in a day.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Que fais-tu ici**_ **!? = What are you doing here!? [French]**


	44. November 29, 1919

_November 29, 1919_

* * *

Lady Weiss 'Fürstin' Schnee stared blankly outside the window of her cubicle in the passenger railcar. Her rapier tucked away in the nondescript black box that was made to fit it. Across from her sat Lieutenant Thibald 'Wächter' Vastel half-buried in a novel while acres of sprawling landscape blurred past across their window.

'They are being transferred to an internment camp here in Dairen as we speak.'

'Intercepting them along the railway is out of the question.'

She turned away to study the handful of people sparsely occupying the other seats. They all kept to themselves, oblivious to the Western spies riding amongst them to raid a military target in what could potentially result in a high-profile diplomatic incident. And possibly an undeclared war if it came to that.

'Our only option is to launch an attack on the camp itself. Best time to sound off would be the witching hour.'

'We have very minimal support in this mission so make the best out of every advantage you can find.'

She brushed her hand across the varnished lid of her kit designed in a passable likeness of a hefty luggage suitcase. With what little resources the SSB had, she was impressed with the quality of the equipment they could construct. Their disguises and timed entry points fooled the sentries and supervisors at the rail stations.

'Understand that the SSB will exercise absolute deniability in the event of the worst.'

'Everyone remember your roles. Check your equipment.'

There could be no room for error. One single mistake and it would all be over. She had one role in this and she had to trust the others to commit to theirs. Though disbelieving at first, she came to not doubt them. These men, these motley of frontline veterans with families and friends waiting for them back in their homes, were willing to follow Jaune to the end of the world and back. No matter what.

That level of devotion was touching. They knew the dangers. They knew the risks. They knew that if all else failed, none of them would survive. And they readily took up the offer to not only save their sergeant but also help finish what he had been sent to do.

'We have reserved seats on the next train to Dairen.'

'Maintain a presence of at most two to four operatives in adjoining railcars. Do not make contact with each other unless necessary until we have reached our destination.'

The train churned alongside a highway where Weiss lingered on the flag of the Empire of Japan waving over a passing Imperial Japanese infantry regiment. Some of them glanced back up at her, steely-faced and better conditioned than their Chinese counterparts.

"Ignore them," Vastel quietly commanded from behind his book.

She looked back down at the bulky wooden 'suitcase' on her lap. No unneeded attention. Remain inconspicuous. She only hoped Laval and the others were doing the same in the other vehicles. Regardless of Hillard's assurances, she doubted the ability of Jaune's squadron in carrying out something this clandestine. People like Bazouille were draftees barely into their twenties, frontline conscripts who were drilled to follow basic commands.

Arguably, their experiences in Northern Russia could have sharpened them. Could have. Fanatical as the Bolsheviks may be, there was a clear difference between directly attacking an enemy frontline and infiltrating deep into enemy territory.

'Remember: our main objective is to rescue our fellow agents. Minimize casualties if you can.'

'Fight back if you have to. Make it quick. We have to keep this quiet.'

Weiss fiddled with a strand of her black wig, her fingers brushing across where her scar had been covered up by a fine layer of cosmetics. She glanced once more out the window to the rugged landscape of Manchuria shrouded in the low-hanging clouds. Winter would be settling in soon and the impending cold would be another decisive factor in their operation.

'No more questions? Good. Erzengel, dismissed.'

The former heiress leaned against the upholstery to clear her head for the hundredth time. Staring at the ceiling, her thoughts spiraled into one repetitive conclusion: SSB Unit Erzengel, now numbering ten strong with one low-level Huntress and nine retrained French soldiers, was on its way to the meat grinder.

'Godspeed Erzengel.'

Goddamn you, Hillard.

* * *

Cold. Dripping. Pain.

The sack over his head was starting to congest with his own blood after the sporadic beatings he was given by his captors. Another solid fist to his gut forced out another mouthful of spittle and bile. His Aura had long since been broken and the intervals between the rounds of abuse, it seemed, had been designed to restrict the recovery of his reserves. Prolong the pain, as he came to understand. Made sense. They wanted him alive and vulnerable for whatever designs they had in mind. Doubtless, he would be subjected to ruthless interrogations as a confirmed Western spy. A famous one too if they dug deep enough.

What a bonus that would be.

Here chained to a concrete wall in some basement getting the absolute shit beaten out of him was the famed French war hero Forked Lightning. The walking miracle, the beacon of morale, the tip of the spear that kept stabbing back at the relentless Germans reduced to a withering, pulpy mess somewhere in the forgotten Far East.

Iron grated against iron and the beating stopped.

" _Taich_ _ō_!"

" _Yasume_." That voice. Adam. " _Sore o nuide_."

Instantly, his vision was bathed in painful yellow. From the lantern sitting on the crate next to where he had been hung up as a punching bag. It took a while for him to take in the damage done to his body. The rips in his uniform, the holes where he had been shot multiple times, rips in the fabric caked in his own blood. A hand cupped his chin to guide his gaze upwards to that unforgettable Grimm mask.

"Still alive, sergeant?"

Sergeant Ionas 'Jäger' Arkos grunted back.

The Demon of Mongolia let his head drop back down. "You and I. We have both come a long way, don't you think?"

Yes, they did. A long, long way. How long was it since Beacon fell? Two years? Much has happened since then, more to him and Weiss as they were among the early casualties. That much time can change someone drastically. Then again, a lot can happen in less than a year.

"A new world," droned his interrogator. "A new life. A new direction. A fresh start! And yet some things never change."

"Get to the point," Jaune squeezed out through ragged breaths.

Adam circled back to him. Smiling. "A hard man, eh? I'm impressed. You see, I'm curious. I fully expected a capable Huntsman such as yourself to have found work as a soldier of fortune in a universe devoid of Grimm. Or perhaps retire to a quiet life tending beets in unassuming marches. Neither options would not surprise me."

The blonde sergeant gathered enough strength to raise his head to meet the bull faunus in his eye slits.

"There are many things that interest me. Where you came from, how you came here. You can answer those later. The most pressing inquiry is why a decorated veteran such as yourself, a survivor of the so-called 'Great War' that saw millions upon millions dead, would willingly offer himself up to fight another war? For people you could easily ignore? For causes you care less about?"

Adam leered closer. Studying him. Analyzing him. That supremacist half-grin devolving into a demeaning grimace.

"Is it the thrill? Is it the rush of...killing? The intoxicating sensation that comes after you have snuffed out the life of another living being. Is that it?"

"Not my first choice," Jaune growled.

"Oh? What then? Why come here across the known world to help some warlord wantonly oppress the weak? Why offer your services to an uncaring crown to meddle in the affairs of some crumbling empire?"

For some reason, the blonde sergeant found that amusing enough to scoff back. "As I said, Taurus. Not my first choice."

"You're a stubborn one."

"So I've been told."

Adam stood. "You humans never change."

Jaune chuckled. "Really now... What makes you any different?"

Immediately, the edge of a sharp blade pressed against his throat. "Do not equate your barbarism to the rationality of a faunus."

Forked Lightning snorted. "Do you honestly think you're better than us?"

"The superiority of faunus over humans has been proven time and again."

A scoff. "Back in Remnant...that argument could have gotten you somewhere. Probably a bloody nose and a lynch mob but somewhere's better than nowhere."

Adam drew back slightly, letting the edge cut into his throat and blood to trickle along the blade. "You are in no position to challenge your betters."

"Are we on Remnant, Adam?" hissed Jaune. "Get real and take a good look around you... We're on Earth. No Grimm. No Dust... _Merde_ , no White Fang, too. So no fucking issues between humans and faunus because you and Blake are the only fucking faunus on this godforsaken rock!"

The blade came off. Followed quickly by a flying fist to the gut. And a calm but agitated inquiry over the heaving. "Why are you here, Sergeant Arkos?"

The captive spat out a ball of bloodied saliva before answering, "To keep bastards like you from causing another Great War."

Surprise was not the response Jaune expected. Yet the Demon gaped at him as though he had broken off his restraints. The blonde sergeant recalled Polaris. The man's report held more than a kernel of truth to it. With the details in mind, he pressed on.

"Why'd you do it?"

Adam straightened himself. "Do what?"

"Turn on your employers. Back in Mongolia. You saved a village...from being razed...by government troops. Orochens, was it? Ethnic tribe...had to resort to banditry to survive...yet you saved them..."

The Demon was silent. Then he stooped down again, closer into his bubble, radiating a calm boiling rage. "You are too smart for your own good."

Forked Lightning huffed. "Hah...and you're too moral...for a demon."

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"Paperwork gets around," Jaune bluffed. He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat so he could continue. "There are reports. Of what you did... The Western powers know, too... That's why they sent me here..."

Adam nearly flared. "To stop me?"

"To make sure...you won't get carried away...and start another war that nobody needs."

The next moment passed in tense silence with the two staring each other down. Eventually, the bull faunus eased back with a grunt and wiped his blood off his sword. "War is a necessary means to an end."

"And what's your end?" Jaune challenged. "After all...this is a new world, a new life and all that... What are you trying to achieve anyway?"

The Demon made to speak. Only to not. He clamped his mouth shut and stared through him. At the wall. Then at the floor. Then at his hands after he sheathed his weapon.

The blonde sergeant shook his head. "You're a prick, Taurus. A prick who still has a heart... I'm sure of it."

"Watch your tongue, human."

"You want flattery? Fine. You're a crusader... You're a crusader who's caught up in his own rage that he forgot what he was fighting for..."

Adam seethed. "I fought for rights of the faunus. I fought for our place in the world."

"And that world is gone now," Jäger argued. "Discrimination still exists here more so than it did over there. That's what you're fighting against, huh. Equal rights for people who remind of who you were fighting for in the first place—"

Jaune felt his head snap back up against the wall. It had gotten much harder to breathe with his neck being squeezed by his interrogator. Still, he could stare down at the angry faunus through the slits in his mask. He could see...his pupils burning wildly through those tight holes. Determination. Confused, directionless determination. "A-adam... Y-you..."

Adam let go. "Seeing you and Schnee... Seeing you all...proved that this is not the afterlife. You and I share the same perspectives, sergeant. This is a new world. With the same problems multiplied from the one we left."

"So _connard_ ," wheezed Jaune. "...what are you doing?"

"Fighting for the oppressed."

Forked Lightning snorted. "Yeah...while you ignore the Japanese...doing the same shit...to the Koreans...and the Chinese..."

"Their time will come."

A pained bitter chuckle. "You're a piece of work, you know that? You come here...asking me why I'm a mercenary...when you're doing the exact same thing... _L'appel du vide_... Blind wandering hypocrites, aren't we...eh, Adam?"

Interestingly, he did not answer. He simply turned on his heel to leave.

Jaune hid his smirk as the ever-present guards standing at attention would take that as a form of insult and give him a bonus round of kicks and punches. If the lack of a response from Adam meant anything, then it was that he had pushed some buttons. The captive cleared his throat and coughed out, "Hey... Where am I?"

The Demon paused on his way out. His voice carried a forced calm. "An internment camp on the peninsula."

Vague but at least descriptive address. "And Blake? Yang?"

The bull faunus's fists tightened at the mention of their names. Jäger observed the steady breathing that followed. "... Incarcerated."

A better answer than what he dreaded to hear. "... And Weiss? Weiss Schnee?"

Adam sighed. "Regrettably not here."

"Huh. Not much...to go by," breathed Forked Lightning. Did she get to safety? Or was she captured and held in another facility? He wanted to know but he doubted his captors did. Instead, he called out, "Adam! Do you even know...what you're doing...with your new life?"

Hearing only the shuffling of his boots, Jaune pressed his back against the wall to draw more air back into his lungs. He opened his mouth to speak but the door to his little prison swung shut, leaving him with his two Japanese tormentors who broke out of their rigid stances, apparently none the wiser.

Perhaps it was a good thing for not only him but also for Adam that they did not understand a single word of English.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 8, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: January 22, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 22, 2019**

 **NOTE: We're getting close to the climax of Act III. I'll try and keep it in one chapter but if it gets too long, I'll split it.** **Thanks again for the support and feedback and I hope you guys enjoy this all the way to the end.**

 **Also, I hope I used the phrase ' _L'appel du vide_ ' right.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Taichō**_ **= Sir/Captain/Commander [Japanese]**

 _ **Yasume**_ **= At ease [Japanese]**

 _ **Sore o nuide**_ **. = Take that off. [Japanese]**

 _ **L'appel du vide**_ **= French idiomatic expression that roughly means doing/wanting to do something stupid or dangerous despite knowing better**

 _ **Connard**_ **= French derogatory term**


	45. November 30, 1919, Witching Hour

_November 30, 1919_ – _Witching Hour_

* * *

Weiss breathed deep.

This was it. SSB Unit Erzengel was in position. The two fire teams under Laval had successfully crawled to the base of the southernmost guard tower unnoticed by the Japanese sentries lazily smoking above them. They were waiting on her now, concealed in the freezing brush, waiting for her to do her part and kick off the raid. She glanced to her right where Vastel had crouched behind a thicket, his eyes piercing back at her from the darkness. He checked his pocket watch and held up four fingers. Four minutes past the witching hour.

SSB agent Fürstin nodded back at him and knelt down, the cold of the thin layer of the first winter snow seeping through her winter coat. She cupped her hands and waited until her summon arose out of the tiny rotating glyph. Standing at attention at a mere fifteen inches, it saluted her and leapt off her palms, blade at the ready, awaiting her orders.

Despite the thickness of the foliage, Weiss caught Vastel raising his brow at her Semblance. She smirked back at him before she sent off her little warrior to dispatch the guards manning the south gate, their main point of entry.

* * *

The paper caught his eye.

It was a haphazardly discarded page from a British newsletter. Or American, perhaps? Regardless, the words were in English and despite the bootprints and the creases, he could make out the photograph of a congested hospital. The people in it looked very European. So a hospital in Europe? Overcrowded? A plague? The publication was dated several months prior but not irrelevant in these times.

Relevant enough for Jaune to peer closer despite his restraints. He may have been beaten to a pulp over and over again but despite his inflamed cheeks, he could still read the fine text. It was an extensive column detailing the global epidemic that was the Spanish Flu. Millions infected, hundreds of thousands dead, bodies cremated to prevent the spread. And then the known symptoms.

Fever and nausea? It was hot in here while the odorous air was hard to stomach.

Joint pains and dark spots around the eyes? He was a regular punching bag for some of the guards so that counted. His face hurt from the swelling alone.

Blood in secreted bodily fluids? Vomiting? Headaches?

He may not have all these symptoms yet he could easily pass of as someone who did. And that planted the seeds of a possible escape. He did not know whether or not his guards were credulous. He had to try though; what else did he have to lose? Another beating? Being forced to watching Ren or Blake or Yang get thrown around? A spiteful execution of an unrelated prisoner?

Jaune choked down his doubts. Did it matter what he would be risking? Any effort would do at this point. Anything to get him out of these chains, out of here, out with his friends and back into the world outside. Back to Weiss. Because if there was anything left worth living for in this godforsaken rock, it would be the happiness of his friends...and the future he had hoped to share with the one he cared for the most.

* * *

Weiss moved as swiftly and silently as she could, catching up to the breach in the canton where the fire teams slipped through after hiding the unconscious sentries. She pressed her back to the concrete wall and eased inside. Already, her construct had dispatched another patrol, enabling Laval and the others to drag them into the pitch darkness. She peaked her head around the corner.

At the end of this artery was the metal door that led into the building itself. Her shrunken familiar grew to the size of a fully-grown man and wrenched it open, loudly grating the metal against the floor.

Weiss cringed. That would surely alert whoever was inside. Better to capitalize on the window of opportunity. She darted past the fire team and kicked down a responding Japanese soldier. He tumbled down the staircase directly into the two others following behind him. Their cries bounced against the walls of the corridor. Arousing more of their comrades.

The former heiress rushed to her construct, now having grown to reach Vastel's height. Large enough to fight in these confined spaces. One swing from the dull end of its blade sent four more freshly woken guards flying down the hallway.

" _Mon Dieu_! _C'est un golem_!"

Weiss snapped her head back at the fire team and yelled, "Stop staring! Go!"

Laval nodded and methodically directed his squad in spreading out to check the cells. That was when everyone else in the facility woke up. And started making noise.

* * *

Jaune made sure to cough directly into the face of his tormentor. His blood landed on the man and he recoiled to wipe his face.

The blonde sergeant continued coughing while exaggerating his heavy breathing. He felt a hand pull on his scalp and he saw a fist winded to go. So he forced himself to cough more. More blood spattered across the man, this time staining his dirty white lapels with specs of crimson.

"Flu," he breathed. "Flu...sick...flu..."

"Eh? _Nani o itte iru_!?"

Jaune wracked his brain for something clearer to communicate his ruse. He had only studied Mandarin and that was hard enough. Japanese seemed simpler and more straightforward yet it was the same with the calligraphy and syllables. He had to try. Maybe they understood some Chinese? One of them had to. He banked on it. It was evident that half of the IJA forces on the mainland were local conscripts from the Japanese holdings.

" _Shēngb_ _ìng_ , s _hēngbìng_..."

His torturer was more puzzled than angry. " _Nani_? _Kono otoko wa nani ni tsuite hanashite iru nodesu ka_?"

Jaune kept churning out whatever Far Eastern words he could recall—Mandarin, Korean, whatever! Any relevant words that he had come across during his time here including the new ones he had picked up from the many letters and publications Yang had accumulated. " _Shēntǐ bù_ _hǎo_ _... Goyaghan_... _muleun_... _anjohda_... _"_

The other guard in the room pulled aside his comrade. They exchanged a quick dialogue and both went pale. Good sign, right? Has to be. That meant that he got through to them. The more they talked, the more worried they appeared. Their faces contorted to one of...fear. Yes. Good!

He continued coughing. Then swaying. Then breathing heavily. " _Shēngbìng_... _shēntǐ bù hǎo_..."

Now the two soldiers recoiled. They backed away from him quicker than he expected them to, eying him with expressions of pure horror. Immediately, the man who had been beating him began frantically wiping his face clean, his intimidating fists shaking in unadulterated fear. Jaune looked up and had to bite back a smile as the frenzied bastard began tearing off his jacket. His friend tried to placate him. They ended up bursting through the door of his cell, leaving it wide open.

More guards came. More yelling, more talking. Then they pointed to him still chained up in his cell. One of them raised his rifle at him.

" _Merde_ ," he breathed.

This was not what he expected! He wrestled against his cuffs while a whole motley of soldiers continued arguing amongst themselves directly outside his cell. He glanced their way and saw that they were divided on the issue. Kill him? No. There would be consequences for that, it would seem. Quarantine him? That might get him sardined with the real sick people. What to do, what to do?

The troops let out a panicked shout and dispersed, some bursting into a sprint away from him with the now topless guy scraping at his skin and screaming louder than the rest. They all left him alone. Huh. That escalated differently.

Jaune took a deep breathe and focused on himself. His body hurt, his muscles hurt, he was sure he had some broken bones that needed mending. A lot of work for his Aura. His large reserves of Aura. He stilled his breathing and concentrated as best he could to draw on something. Something to power his hands so he could snap out of these cuffs. It would be a strain but he could not squander this opportunity for escape by sitting here and waiting for his tanks to fill up.

Come on, come on, come on—

Bricks, plaster, and cement erupted in a deafening puff of smoke outside his cell.

"Jaune!"

* * *

They methodically carved through prison, dispatching guards, clearing cells, releasing prisoners regardless of whoever they may have been. Weiss had split from Laval and rendezvoused with Vastel bursting through an unguarded vein in the west wing.

"Have you found anyone?" he demanded.

"None yet! Have you?"

" _Non_." He checked his pocket watch. "Ten minutes!"

Ten minutes into the raid. Their progress was optimal. Good. She knew they had to keep pushing until they found Jaune and the rest. "Where to?"

The lieutenant flicked his head towards the next cell block. "This way!"

The two agents flanked the hinges of the doorway to allow enough space for the Arma Gigas to kick down the metal door. As expected, it was suddenly peppered by a hail of gunfire that crashed into it. Some bullets chipped away at the armor, some ricocheted dangerously close to Weiss and Vastel.

"Fürstin!"

"On it!"

The construct charged headlong into the cell block. Fürstin ran in after with Wächter, evading stray shots as best they could. The former planted glyphs behind the shooters up on the catwalks that propelled them off their platforms. The latter slid under the legs of the Arma Gigas, sliding heels first into the shins of the line of guards who taken up firing positions in front them.

"Jaune! Jaune!" Weiss barked, hoping to elicit a response from one of the many cages lining this entire wing. "Jaune, can you hear me!"

"Search the cells!" Vastel ordered amid his melee with some of the guards. The scarred lieutenant impressively held his own, exploiting his physique and superior training to overcome his foes.

Already, the few prisoners in the ward pressed themselves against the bars of their individual cells, reaching out to the heiress as she skimmed over them, pleading for release in their own languages. She wanted to set them free, the poor souls, and she made to try and use her glyphs to break the locks on the bars. That was until a red blur crashed into her side, sending her toppling off the catwalk and onto the floor below. Vastel rushed over to help her back up.

They both angled their heads up to the catwalk where Adam Taurus cast them a twisted sneer.

"Schnee."

"Taurus!"

" _Putain de merde_."

* * *

"I got you, Vomit Boy," Yang wheezed, none the worse for wear. Despite the visible bruises all over her—her pretty face was not spared the same treatment—and the tattered clothing, she insisted on slinging his right arm over her shoulder even as Bazouille was helping him up with his left arm arced over the lanky grenadier. Together, they limped out of his cell.

"Baz," Jaune coughed. " _Pourquoi es-tu ici_?"

"Saving you," Baz replied. " _Je t'en prie_."

The blonde sergeant snickered painfully through grit teeth. "Really...now? Heh, _merci_ , _les gars_."

"I'm impressed," the Dragon chirped, the cold steel fingers of her mechanical arm gripping hard on his hand to keep him from slipping off of her. It was good thing her extension was forged out of Atlesian alloys, probably frustrating the interrogators when they tried to destroy it. Or rip it off. "You got your own team looking out for you."

" _Sergent_ Arkos!"

Jaune looked up at the man jogging towards him from the other side of the block with a slung rifle bouncing off his chest. " _Oui_?"

" _Sergent_ André Laval," he hastily saluted. "It is an honor to see you again, _Foudre Fourchue_. Do you remember me?"

Should he? Hold on. Was this guy his replacement when he left Russia? "I think so."

Laval ushered them forward. _"Bon_ , _bon_. We can get reacquainted later. Do you know where your other friends have been kept?"

" _Non_."

"We still got to find Blake and Ren," Yang interjected. "They have to be around here somewhere." She glanced hopefully at Laval. "Right?"

"Yes. The rest of our unit are searching for them."

"The rest of your unit?" questioned the Dragon.

"The second fire team is combing through the other sections of this facility. We should be able to rendezvous with them and the other two agents in the courtyard. From there, we will head to the pier for evacuation."

"Got it. Wait. Who're the other two agents?"

"Agents Wächter and Fürstin, _ma'amselle_."

Jaune snapped back at Laval, nearly falling off his helpers in his attempt to break free. "What!?"

Yang pulled him back up. "Hey, step-by-step, dude!"

He ignored her and tried to wrest away Baz's hand from his other arm. "What did you say? Sergeant, who did you say were...?"

"Wächter and Fürstin," Laval replied. "Your fellow agents."

"Hold up! Who?" injected Yang.

"Vastel," coughed Jaune, his eyes wide in disbelief. "He's still alive?"

"Very much alive. Horribly disfigured unfortunately."

"Huh...and Weiss..." The blonde sergeant dipped his head and chuckled. "Unbelievable. I guess...it's my turn this time around... I'm the damsel in distress..." He took step after painful step with his escorts down the corridor where he was graced by the familiar faces of his old squadron. The stubborn bastards. He smiled weakly at them, feeling ever warmer with every look of joy and relief on their sorry mugs. " _Que je suis heureux de vous revoir_..."

"Hey, hold on! Ice Queen and who!?"

Jäger smirked at the Dragon. "Lieutenant Thibald Vastel... I thought he died...back in Mongolia..."

Yang's additional queries were interrupted by a thunderous boom that shook the dust off the ceiling.

* * *

The walls of the cell block were built out of thick cement bricks held together by metal rebar and reinforced with enough concrete to fill an aqueduct. Yet such solidity did not stop the momentum of a massive frost giant crashing through it.

Weiss felt the soles of her boots digging into the floor as she tried to hold her ground against Adam's full weight pushing down on her. His strength carried through his katana digging into her rapier. Small cracks threatened to fissure and break both interlocked blades.

The former heiress held no delusions towards the bull faunus. A far superior opponent, his skill outmatched hers. Additionally, his senses were sharpened by years of extensive field operations conducted against her family's company and similar proxies. She could only realistically last for so long before she would be overwhelmed. That did not stop Weiss from trying her hardest to fight back. Anything to buy time for the liberated prisoners to escape, for Vastel to recover from Adam's debilitating kick, for her Arma Gigas to push away the debris heaped against it and intervene.

Weiss disengaged to reengage through various angles of attack. Their duel was winding her down until her construct reappeared through the gaping hole in the wall and thrust its pillar of a claymore forward to intercept Adam's blade. It broke.

The katana, a normally sturdy blade with a legendary history, fractured from the stress into flying jagged pieces. The brief second of distraction was enough for her to swing around him and kick him to the ground. Her gargantuan Arma Gigas rapidly crashed down with both heels on his back, thunderously cratering the floor and clouding the ward with dust and plaster.

She landed conveniently beside Vastel propping himself up with his trench gun.

"Fürstin, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Scratched."

The air cleared to reveal the Demon of Mongolia writhed and growled under the full weight of her massive familiar standing rigidly. He made to push back only to be pressed further into the rubble. "D-damn you, Schnee!"

Weiss closed the gap with her weathered rapier leveled at his face. "You have caused enough trouble!"

"You...will not...break me again," he breathed, "You...cannot kill me!"

It was the breaking point that she should have been expecting. The bull faunus was encapsulated in bright light, a magnificent manifestation of his remaining Aura and astonishingly threw the entire Arma Gigas off his back. Now he stood in the crater frothing in pure—she dare say it—animalistic rage, adjusting his cracked mask to keep it from falling off his face.

"The heart of our suffering," he sneered, "your greed, your cruelty...you human scum...you deserve to be exterminated!"

Adam recovered his broken katana and withdrew the corresponding sheath off his belt. He took a wide stride over the rubble. Weiss stepped back as Vastel stepped forward. The lieutenant opened fire at the same time she triggered her glyphs and her construct swung down with its mighty blade.

* * *

"It's them," Laval announced.

Jaune was helped up the steps into the mess hall where the other half of his old squadron had barricaded themselves behind some overturned tables. They waved at them and emerged out of cover along with a handful of liberated prisoners. Among them hobbled Ren who struggled to carry Blake in his arms. Both were far worse for wear.

"Blake!" cried Yang, nearly dropping him. "Shit! Is she alright!? Ren, are you alright!?"

"She's weak," Ren grunted, laying the battered cat faunus onto the floor. "We were beaten regularly. I suspect...it was to prevent our Aura from regenerating."

Jäger felt the Dragon heat up beside him. He gripped her mechanical arm and flashed her a stern glare. "Yang, stand down."

"Stand down!?" she flared, thankfully without activating her Semblance. Or she was herself recovering and unable to unleash her tendered flames at this time. "After what they did to my own partner!? Those fuckers should pay!"

"They already fled," the Serpent calmly shot down. "Something about a flu."

Jaune simpered. His ruse had worked far more effectively than he had hoped. Laval's face contorted in confusion, then shock, then a brief analytical glance in his direction. The man immediately gathered himself and directed them to the corridor that led to the courtyard.

"Good on us then." Laval ran a quick headcount. "Our work here is done. Let us go down to the waterfront at once."

"What about Weiss?" Yang barked.

"What," Blake croaked between the caring arms of Privates Yver and Tubrin. "What's...at the docks...?"

"Wächter and Fürstin. And our means of escape. Hopefully."

"Would they be there? How would they know?" Ren asked.

"They would know," the sergeant answered as he turned towards the window where one of the cell blocks had been set ablaze, unmindful of the handle grip of a flare gun sticking out of his hip holster. " _Merde_! We should go now before the fire spreads!"

* * *

Weiss was in pain.

The complete absence of the sophisticated tracking technology of Remnant meant countless sessions of meditation in order to attain a heightened awareness of her fighting strength. This in turn allowed her to ascertain her Aura level which by this point in the fight was nearing depletion. Further proof of this was when a bright honeycomb mesh of light flickered around her body after she was violently tossed out of the burning cell block into the freezing prison yard. Thankfully, her Arma Gigas burst out of the rubble to catch her.

She wobbled in its massive gauntleted hands as it carefully lowered her to the ground. Sudden movement on her right redirected her to Vastel following suit after her and tumbling maladroit over the concrete, his bulky frame outlined by the flames licking up the compound. Adam emerged out of the building silhouetted against the searing bright fires that threatened to spread over much of the complex as much of the stone materials were supplemented by wooden beams and thatched roofs.

The white-haired girl limped towards her comrade while the Demon of Mongolia slowly meandered close, himself staggering pathetically. Both their bodies glistered unevenly—they were exhausting their Auras, hers most likely a breadth away from shattering completely and leaving her completely vulnerable. She dropped to her knee to check on the lieutenant.

"Wächter! Can you hear me," she prodded desperately as she strained to help carry his weight.

Wächter crawled towards a heap of debris, his hand clutching his abdomen. "Do not mind me... Get out of here!"

"No! I am not leaving you behind!"

"Do not be stubborn," Vastel growled. "Save yourself. Leave!"

"I refuse!"

"Ah, camaraderie," Adam grounded out despite his weakened state. "Your frost knight will not stop me from killing you both."

The lieutenant dragged himself to rest his back against the rubble, his hand slipping from out of his jacket gripping a loaded revolver. "He is right. I will hold him off."

Weiss shook her head. "You can't! You're no match for him!"

"I can delay him! Save yourself!"

No. Not again. She was not going to let another person sacrifice himself for her sake. Distant as she was towards Vastel, the very thought of abandoning him to his fate was abhorrent. She could never forget the pang of guilt that engulfed her when she strode into that morgue in Arkhangelsk where the late czarist Semyon Dverko lay upon the gurney. A heavy price willingly paid to buy her precious breath. Breath that she risked throwing away by coming here to indulge in this insanity.

" _Ya nye ostavlyu tebya pozadi_!" she shrieked to the sky.

"Fürstin!"

Weiss leapt to her feet, grimacing through the strain rocketing up her muscles. Her Arma Gigas stood by her, its massive unbroken blade heaved at the ready. Even then, there was only so much she could do to maintain this much effort into keeping her Semblance active any longer.

Adam grinned, matching her prose with his own. The signs of fatigue were evident—the cuts and scrapes were taking longer to seal up. Yet this did nothing to faze him. "Finally. To kill a Schnee with my bare hands. How I longed for this."

The former heiress, determined and unfettered, propelled herself off a boosting glyph. The Demon similarly burst forth into a frenzied charge to meet her. Her golem was faster and met the serrated stub of Adam's weapon headlong, shattering out of existence. Through the flakes of her construct, she sunk her rapier deep into his shoulder upon which the blade broke off the cross-guard.

The two of them toppled over each other drained and heaving for breath.

She did not know for how long she was laying on the ground. Every part of her ached. Her vision blurred. She could barely stand, much less move.

Shuffling. Adam was standing up...or tried to. Unbelievable. A broken sword protruded above his chest, a most grievous injury among many, yet he hobbled over, dragging along what was left of his weapon. His grunts were all she heard amid the flames nipping at crackling wood. Pained, desperate, guttural noises emanated by a faunus starved of reason, only fueled by a desire for revenge. Perhaps this was how fate willed it. To be put down by a vengeful tart. A sacrifice on the altar of the Schnee Dust Company to placate the wrath of those who were victims to its heartless policies.

She blinked. Adam towered over her now. Panting. Sawtoothed steel poised to plunge through her chest. Weiss closed her eyes, the tears breaking free.

Sorry, Jaune.

Sorry, Blake, Yang, Ren.

Sorry, Anya, Lyoshka, Nikolay Alexandrovich, Alexandra Nikolaevna.

Sorry, Ruby.

Sorry, Adam...for the crimes of her family to him and his kind.

Sorry...

Three pops tore through the silence. She cracked her eyes open to witness her executioner on his knees beside her, gasping for air. Both blade and sheath clattered to the ground with his hands gripping the dirt to keep from toppling over.

More shuffling. Vastel, ragged as he was, loomed over Adam, his scarred face stern and composed. He pressed the smoking barrel of his revolver close to the back of his scalp.

"Wait," Weiss croaked.

The lieutenant and the bull faunus gawked at her.

"Don't...don't shoot..."

Wächter slowly drew back his gun, his expression shifting a tad. He gave her an unreadable nod before slumping to his knees.

"Why," Adam choked. "Why...prolong my suffering...? Why torture me...like this...?"

Fürstin felt herself being lifted up in two bulky arms. She looked down to the bull faunus whose back sported the single bullet hole that got through. He collapsed onto his side gaping up at her. Too weak to glare. Too broken to sneer. Too wounded that all he could do was whimper.

"Schnee..."

Weiss wanted to feel angry. She wanted to relish in this victory. Yet the anger was gone. The fury spent. In place of hatred and animosity for this terrorist was...pity. Yes, pity. The same pity that she harbored for Blake during that tumultuous phase in their first semester as a team. The same pity she was taught to disregard for the laborers working in her family's mines. The same pity that she ultimately had for herself and what she nearly became...

"Adam Taurus... For what it's worth...I'm sorry..."

"Sorry," the bull faunus huffed. "Sorry...? Sorry cannot...undo the wrongs...your kind has done to us... Sorry can't fix...this..."

By then, Vastel had turned his back on him to walk away from the burning prison as a flare whistled into the sky. The last thing she saw before the lieutenant carried her towards the docks was the iconic Grimm mask falling atop the piling snow.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 22, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: February 1, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 1, 2019**

 **NOTE: Oh, boy. The word count is rising higher than I anticipated. Writing action scenes is hard and I'm not too fond of them myself. I try to trim down descriptions and clip out unnecessary sentences that I feel are redundant or monotonous.**

 **Anyway, I hope this part has been a good read for you guys.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Mon Dieu_! _C'est un golem_! = My God! It's a golem! [French]**

 _ **Nani o itte iru**_ **!? = What are you saying!? [Japanese]**

 ** _Shēngb_ _ìng_ , s _hēngbìng_ = Sick, sick [Chinese]**

 ** _Nani_? _Kono otoko wa nani ni tsuite hanashite iru nodesu ka_? = What? What is this guy saying? [Japanese]**

 ** _Shēntǐ bù hǎo_ = Bad health/Not feel well [Chinese]**

 ** _Goyaghan_... _muleun_... _anjohda_... = Sick...ill...not healthy... [Korean]**

 ** _Pourquoi es-tu ici_? = What are you doing here? [French]**

 ** _Je t'en prie_. = You're welcome. [French]**

 ** _Merci_ , _les gars_. = Thanks, guys. [French]**

 ** _Foudre Fourchue_ = Forked Lightning [French]**

 _ **Bon**_ **,** ** _bon_. = Good, good. [French]**

 ** _Que je suis heureux de vous revoir_... = Am I glad to see you guys again... [French]**

 ** _Ya nye ostavlyu tebya pozadi_! = I will not leave you behind! [Russian]**


	46. November 30, 1919, Early Morning

_November 30, 1919 – Early Morning_

* * *

Empty fishing boats lined the waterfront, floating under the shadow of the ironclad steamer moored to the southernmost pier. It was the largest and only ship in the area to have a woken crew with a handful of sailors jogged up and down the gangplank. Laval stayed on the ground to direct the safe transfer of Jaune and his fellow escapees up to the deck of what appeared to be a Japanese merchant vessel complete with the Imperial Japanese standards rippling off the bow and the stern.

The handful of lanterns revealed the crewmen to be pale-faced Westerners clad in the white uniforms of the Imperial Japanese Navy. In their midst strode a strikingly recognizable officer shrouded in deep ocean blue. He gestured to the row of stretchers readied around the foremast.

"Hillard?" Jaune breathed when the officer came within the dim lighting. " _Putain_. Took you long enough."

"Welcome back," greeted the disguised SSB major. He offhandedly observed the Anfu Dragon arguing with the crew over the well-being of the Feng-t'ien Ghost and the Serpent Monk, both displayed extensive evidence of unrestricted torture. "These are your friends?"

"Yeah." Yang, Blake, and Ren, all accounted for. Except Weiss. "Where is she?"

Something popped allowing the major to peer over the bannister. Heads quickly traced the spark soaring overhead to illuminate the evening sky. "Oh goddamn it, André."

Jaune glanced back to Hillard clicking his tongue and suddenly barking out a spew of orders. The blonde sergeant reached over and with the strength of a Huntsman roused, yanked down on his superior's arm to force him to meet his glare. "Where. Is. Weiss."

Major Wilfred 'Aufseher' Hillard flashed him a brief frustrated scowl before pulling away. "She better be on her way."

* * *

Weiss was drained.

She surrendered to hanging limp in the arms of the lieutenant. Vastel carried her across the now abandoned internment camp, past liberated housing units, down wide concrete steps to a pier where the shape of a cruiser eclipsed the darkened horizon. How much time had passed since they began? Twenty minutes? An hour?

It was still dark but the fires burning around illuminated much of the compound. The guards, for some reason, had abandoned their posts. And the prisoners fled into the night. The few bodies that moved about either vanished into the smoke or ran off somewhere.

"Lieutenant," she croaked.

" _Oui_?" came the gruff answer.

"Where are we...going?"

"The docks. The _Shonosei_ is here."

Their extraction was already here? That meant that they had been engaged in combat for a long while now. And that flare that lit up the sky was... "They...they're waiting for us..."

Vastel nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead until they crossed the threshold to the waterfront. Weiss angled her head towards the figures waving frantically at them from the port. Some of them jogged over to receive them.

" _Dieu merci_!" gasped Laval. "We feared the worst. Hurry! Japanese reinforcements are surely on their way as of this moment."

Wächter grunted something indiscernible as he pressed on with carrying Fürstin to the gangway angled against the hull of the Japanese merchant cruiser _Shonosei_. Despite the darkness, the crewmen were discernibly foreign. None among them had the physical characteristics of the peoples of the Far East.

Weiss gathered herself slightly to look around. Laval was the only member of their unit to still be standing on the mainland. The rest were guiding them up the gangway to the deck where a familiar face awaited them.

"Hillard...?"

"About time," Hillard sniped.

"Where...where is..."

"Weiss?"

The former heiress had no words. She was overwhelmed with emotion. Warmth uncontainable bubbled up from within her at the sight of Jaune Arc seated on a stretcher, his back reclining against the base of the mast, gawking back at her. All she could do was heave and sniffle until Vastel set her down on an adjacent cot, not once breaking her gaze towards her SSB partner.

"Lieutenant," Jaune coughed. "How did you...?"

The scarred lieutenant shrugged. "I was lucky."

Forked Lightning chuckled hoarsely. "Aren't we all?"

"If you will excuse me, I need to lay down for a bit," Wächter bade, nodding knowingly at the blubbering Fürstin as he limped away.

"Jaune," she breathed. "You're..."

"Been better," he replied. A hint of a smile broke through his swollen cheeks. "Roughed up... But still looking good..."

"You..." Her sniffles morphed into sobs. "You dolt..."

Exhausted as she was, she forced her arms to move. Now the two of them were resting their backs against the mast, her sniffling into his shoulder, him ruffling her hair, their arms locked around each other. Neither of them cared less of the looks the crew gave them, or the knowing glances thrown their way by the three other mercenaries that had been the focus of this entire foray in the first place.

* * *

Jaune tightened his embrace, savoring the moment. He cooed into her ear. "Hey...our job's done...everybody's here... We can go home now..."

Weiss whinnied then broke into mournful chortles. Tears and sweat served to only make her face shine under the dim oil lamps. She tried to speak only to come back with happy whimpers.

The blonde sergeant gestured at the other mercenaries. Yang, characteristically brushing off her injuries, hefted Blake's over her shoulder. The two shuffled over, wincing and beaming proudly. Ren completed their circle with a hand resting on his shoulder, his equally swollen face stoic as ever.

"All of us," Jaune breathed. "We're going home..."

Boots thudded rapidly up the wooden gangplank.

The five Remnant survivors looked to the bannister where Laval, the last person to get off Manchurian soil, darted onto the deck, expression mired in panic. He spun on his heels to aim his pistol at the shadow staggering down the steps to the docks, illuminated by the few lamp posts dotting the perimeter. Clothes ripped, ugly gashes marring exposed skin, dried blood tracing a line down a hole where a bullet had torn into.

The most glaring detail was the broken katana he wielded.

In moments, over a dozen rifles clicked over the railing. Hillard held out his hand to stay the crew before they could fire. Jaune and Weiss helped each other up, relying on each other for support.

"What are you doing?" hissed one of the sailors.

"Lay down, you two," another ordered. "You're both hurt!"

The figure down below paused, stared at the dozen or so British guns aimed at him, and continued striding awkwardly onward, step by shaky step. Stumbling twice. Grunting and panting loudly until he reached the edge of the pier where the gangway had yet to be detached.

No one spoke for the better of a half-minute until Blake, euphoric in a spur of sudden realization, called out.

"Adam?"

The unmasked face of Adam Taurus met her dumbfounded gaze. He trailed along the rails to the bewildered Yang Xiao-Long and Lie Ren flanking her sides. He said nothing, only stared.

The Anfu Dragon was indignant. "What the hell?"

The Serpent Monk was cautious. "Adam Taurus?"

The Feng-t'ien Ghost was anxious. "Adam..."

The Demon of Mongolia stumbled again, landing conveniently close to the edge. His ragged breathing could be heard across the deck.

"Orders, major?" Laval inquired.

Hillard kept his hand up, eyeing the notorious turncoat mercenary.

Jaune gripped the railing with his free hand while his other arm remained wrapped around Weiss's waist. Strangely, his partner had an air of calm despite her apprehension. So far, Adam had yet to make a move. He was close enough to scratch the hull with that broken sword of his. Then he noticed that the gangplank was still attached to the ship...which was still tethered to the pier.

A single mooring line was what kept them from raising anchor and steaming away. There had been no time to undo it. The hawser ended in a tight coil around the foremost bollard. The same bollard upon which Adam had planted his elbows to keep him on his feet. It was evident to the Huntsmen and Huntresses that his Aura had clearly shattered—a single bullet would be more than enough to end him right then and there.

"Adam," Blake called out. Her voice was cracking. "Enough! It's over... Let it go..."

The blonde sergeant felt Weiss's hand squeeze his and he glanced at her. She was stone-faced with fresh tears running down her cheeks. Was she... Was Weiss Schnee, former heiress of the Schnee Dust Company notorious treatment of faunus, shedding tears...for Adam Taurus?

"I'm sorry...Adam," she whispered.

Sergeant Arkos stared at her wondering whether or not he was hearing words he never expected from her. Then again, much has changed. Here she stood, a far cry from who she once was, expressing remorse towards a person who had done too much to be considered forgivable.

"Let go," the Ghost wailed, shaking the arms of both the Dragon and the Serpent. "No more White Fang! No more killing! No more hate... Adam, please! Let go..."

Jaune bit his lip. Blake was crying. Weiss was crying, too. Yang and Ren were unreadable while Hillard and Laval repeatedly cast him questioning glances. He centered his attention on Adam staring distantly at the hull. Mouth agape. A single blue eye boring into the riveted steel of the cruiser, lost in thought, confused. Conflicted. The other...was forever sealed by the damning brand of the Schnee Dust Company. The three letters were unforgettable and agonizing.

"Adam," Jaune barked.

The bull faunus snapped his head at his voice.

"It's over! We're going home."

Adam was mum though wide-eyed.

"We don't want to fight anymore!" He grimaced at the effort it took on his lungs. It hurt but he sucked in much air to yell out. "We're tired! We've had enough... We're hurting... And so are you."

Jaune could feel the stares from Weiss. From Blake, Yang, and Ren pressed along the forecastle of the ship. He ignored them and kept his attention locked on the former White Fang leader. He paused to hear the words he was going to say in his head before he barked them out loud.

"You...you can come aboard—"

"What!?" Laval hollered.

Hillard silenced him then glowered at the blonde sergeant. "Jäger! Choose your words carefully."

"I know what I said," Jäger replied. "Adam. You can come home, too... New life, same problems... But you can do better. No one needs another war..."

The air was quiet.

Adam glanced up at the blonde sergeant. Then at the former heiress. He traced their faces until his gaze landed on the cat faunus. Silently pleading, a wordless exchange between the two former members of the White Fang.

The bull faunus then pushed himself off the bollard. "Blake, my love... I'm sorry..."

The Demon of Mongolia stood as upright as he could. His grip on his broken katana was tight and he raised it high.

"Adam!" Blake screamed. "What are you—"

"Aim for the chest!" someone hollered.

"No! Don't shoot!" Weiss shrieked.

Adam roared a primal roar. The blade came down fast and hard on the bollard, ripping through the coils of industrial rope and freeing the ship from Manchurian soil. The mooring line slipped off the boards into the water and remained afloat for as long as the confusion reigned over everyone aboard the _Shonosei_.

Then, with a snap of his fingers, Hillard marched around the deck harping a single order. "Raise anchor!"

Jaune remained against the gunwale with Weiss never leaving his side as the crew moved around them, some frantically pulling up the gangplank while others worked the crank to reel in the heavy chains until the anchor raked against the hull. Slowly, the _Shonosei_ drifted past the pier, passing Adam Taurus who slumped to his knees, hands dropping limply to his sides.

The blonde sergeant and the former heiress inched closer to the forecastle where Blake's mewls were louder than the noise generated by the crew. Yang was more or less baffled as she embraced her partner with Ren rubbing circles on her back. The five of them heard a pained screech and cast their attention back to the docks shrinking in their wake.

Adam was weeping.

His shoulders trembled. His head was in his hands. And he was wailing into the sea. Wounded. Broken. Defeated.

Lost.

Blake wailed just as loudly as he did. Weiss slipped from his grasp to wrap her arms around what was left of team RWBY. The three girls slumped to their knees on the deck, mourning together.

Whether out of joy or releasing everything pent up inside, Jaune did not care. He was too tired to weep. He was too tired to even feel anything other than relief. His body still hurt so he pulled along the railing until he reached Ren. The Serpent Monk was enviously spared worse treatment by the Japanese thus saving him enough strength to help out.

As his old Beacon teammate helped him back down onto his stretcher, the blonde sergeant noticed Bazouille striding over with the rest of his old squadron. With only the thought of sleep on his mind, Forked Lightning raised his right hand to give a thumbs up before closing his eyes.

Sleep came immediately.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 31, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: February 5, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 5, 2019**

 **NOTE: We're nearing the conclusion now. Just a couple of chapters left. I hope I did a good job with the characterisation and the interactions between the characters in this one. As you can tell, I went on a divergent path for Adam. Not much so redemption arc but more identity arc. He's coming close to being a loose cannon and I ain't letting him go off the deep end...yet. Maybe. We'll see.**

 **For the foreign language parts, I'll try to keep them less ambiguous and the meanings more obvious. I would rather avoid saturating dialogue chains with parenthesis of English translations.**

 **If there's anything I missed or if you feel something needs to be addressed in the story, then let me know. It's getting difficult to keep up with the details, even the ones I introduced. There's a limit to what I can remember and keep track of even with outlines drafted for that purpose. Or if you have anything else to say, feel free.**

 **Anyway,** **I hope you guys have been enjoying this story so far.**


	47. November 30, 1919, Afternoon

**NOTE: Penultimate chapter, folks.**

* * *

 _November 30, 1919_ – _Afternoon_

* * *

Apparently, he was out for over half the day.

At least his squadron was by his bedside when he came to. The pain that his body had been numb to for the past several hours came flaring back in full. He growled, seethed, grit his teeth, and nearly decked his own men while his Aura kicked in with the sudden force of an agitated bull. It was agonizing. Now he laid back on his bed, half-wrapped in layers of gauze, calmer and in control of his faculties. No serious cuts, no punctures. Probably just broken bones and internal bleeding. He had suffered worse.

With the reintroductions and the whining over, Laval let loose praises on the honorable conduct of his men in Russia following his departure. Though relegated to the rear echelon, that did not spare them contact with pockets of anti-Western resistance. Some were scraped, some were shaken; they were all shot at more times than they could count.

Jaune nodded along, smiling proudly at what his men had achieved. Baz had gotten braver, apparently. Avi tinkered with his machine-gun to optimize its effectiveness, ultimately covering the escape of some Americans trapped in a village. Gosse used his spare time to better his aim. Sabeneux, Tubrin, Yver, and Gaspard had developed a working rapport that made them more efficient as a fire team as proven when they quickly and methodically liberated most of the prison population in Dairen.

" _Je suis fier de vous_ ," Forked Lightning commended.

He really was proud of them. He had never held this much expectations from his men, to be honest. It was a stinking feeling and one that he apologized to them for. They understood, much to his relief. In this world, Huntsmen with Aura and Semblances had become the secret storm-troopers of the modern battlefield.

Baz tapped his arm and had a goofy smile complimented by the knowing smirks of the others. Even Laval could not hide his mirth.

" _Regarde ce que j'ai fait_ ," the lanky grenadier requested.

Jaune raised his brow.

Baz proceeded to pull something out of his knapsack. He held it up to the afternoon sunlight beaming through the porthole. A hardbound manuscript with a well-drawn front cover...a drawing of a French infantryman standing and staring out over a frozen field with a...lady in long flowing hair...wearing a coat...standing next to said infantryman...

The title, in big bold letters, was enough of a declaration. Sergeant Arkos flopped back onto his pillow with a loud groan. His squadron erupted into guffaws as Baz turned the pages of the fully illustrated draft of his story. This idiot actually completed his whole thing and even carried it with him all the way to China to show it to him should he be successfully rescued.

Wow.

Baz never believed he was gone. None of his men believed he was dead. They all held onto the hope that he was still around, not in the best of circumstances but still fighting on. These eight conscripts had faith in him even when he had lost faith in himself. This storybook was evidence of that.

Sergeant Arkos was thunderstruck.

" _Ils l'ont signe_ ," the grenadier said sheepishly, flipping the book over to the open the back cover revealing four signatures. Yang, unsurprisingly, stamped a heart over the 'i' in Xiao-Long. Blake Belladonna followed in simple cursive underneath. The two Chinese characters neatly calligraphed below most definitely translated to 'Lie Ren' or 'Ren Lie.' And the final one near the bottom of the page, serifed with aristocratic elegance, read Weiss Schnee.

Forked Lightning sighed. " _Bien s_ _û_ _r_ , _ils l'ont fait_."

Baz flipped through the pages of his manuscript.

And Jaune was pleasantly surprised. This amount of detail in the artwork was impressive. The blonde sergeant remembered Tubrin being the one among them who studied art for a time in Marseilles before being drafted. And the story...was actually pretty good. Granted, some parts were lifted off of their own personal experiences in the field while other details were greatly exaggerated but overall...

The blonde sergeant beamed. And chuckled. " _Bon travail_. _Ton livre_ , _je l'aime_."

" _Tu fais_? _Merci beaucoup_!" Bazouille excitedly offered him a fountain pen with the obvious request.

Sergeant Arkos kept cheerful as he penned his name and signature directly below Weiss's. Speaking of which, Laval informed him that his friends were still recovering in their respective rooms. They had already been tended to by the ship's physician. It was amusing listening to how the experienced medical practitioner fumbled and dawdled on how implausible it was for their bodies to be recovering at such a staggering rate.

Some secrets were best left unsaid even among those who knew more than the governments of the world would allow.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when Jaune was cleared by the on-board physician to leave the room and walk around. He strolled straight up to the deck for fresh air to find Blake idling solitary by the bow. The ship was mostly silent bar the minute humming of the engines below and the Siberian winds rippling over the jostling seas. No one else seemed to be on the floor. Other than the personnel going about their shifts on the bridge amidships, it was only the two of them here.

He carried himself over until she turned around before he even passed the winch where the anchor's chains had been coiled tightly around.

"Hey, Blake."

"Hello, Jaune."

The blonde sergeant could see fresh trails running down her cheeks. "You alright?"

Blake looked away then nodded.

Jaune had to admit that he never really had much to say to the cat faunus. Even back then, in their days at Beacon, they barely had anything longer than a passing phrase. She was too reclusive, too engrossed in her books, and she held her personal struggles too close to her chest that even her own team had trouble reaching out to her.

Still, the past quarter of the year gave enough time to get to know her more. It was evident, though, that there was much about her that he did not know. Not that he meant to pry but anything was better than standing here in relative silence. So he joined her on the railing, staring back at the Sea of Japan. It took him a minute to come up with a conversation starter.

"How are you holding up?"

"Better," came a pained whisper.

Jaune nodded. "You got something on your mind?"

Blake exhaled deeply. Her hands pale from gripping the railing too hard. "A lot..."

"You...want to talk about it?"

"Already did." It was a deflection.

He turned back to the endless expanse of sea. She must have went through this already with Yang and Weiss. Maybe with Ren, too. It must have been painful and he could understand her not wanting to bring it up again. Unfortunately, he remained stubbornly curious.

"Anything...involving me?"

She huffed dryly. "No."

"You sure?"

"I just want to be alone."

He caught the tone she used and held his tongue for a while. A short while because a part of him wanted to find out how she was after coming out of the prison in far worse condition than any of them had ever been. He was aware of how obsessed Adam had been over her. Could the bull faunus have...?

No. He was not going to jump to conclusions. "I don't mean to pry but...how are you feeling about...you know...?"

"Jaune, please," the Ghost pleaded controllably. "I don't want to talk about it."

Jaune studied her. She was holding back. Refusing to acknowledge the core of her emotional pain. With what little he knew of how other people handled themselves, he could only surmise that she was bottling it all up. And that it was not good for her. Then again, he could be wrong. Maybe he should start reading some of those Freudian books he had heard about.

"Okay... I guess, uh, Yang was pretty persistent, huh."

Blake sighed. "Yes."

He nodded. "Okay. And what did she say?"

"Why are you pushing this?" she demanded.

"Because...I..." He had no other reason to justify his queries, he knew. Only his plain curiosity. That innate desire to banish the unknown fog and reveal that which was concealed for the sake of knowing. Even if said information was irrelevant. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. Forget I asked."

And they were quiet again. For about a minute.

"I'd toss myself overboard if it helped," the Ghost opined.

Jaune stared at her. Her gaze was focused on some unseen mirage. Thankfully, it was unlike the haunting expressions he had seen on far too many of his comrades on the Western Front. "Why?"

"Look, it's...it's hard to...say."

"It's Adam," he deadpanned. "What did he do to you?"

"He didn't do anything," Blake argued. Or nearly yelled back. She rebounded and stared back at the horizon. "He didn't...hurt me."

Sergeant Arkos raised his brow. "He didn't touch you?"

"He didn't hurt me. Didn't torture me. Didn't release me either. He let the guards do their thing. All he ever did was talk. Said how much I hurt him. How much pain he was in. How much he wished things were back to the way they were..."

Remorseful? Holding back? That was uncharacteristic of the Adam Taurus he had come to know. "But you were..."

"I know. The Japanese knew about Adam. And they accepted his services when he switched sides. But the army still knew him, knew what he'd done. If he had any rapport with their soldiers, it was a bad one." She rubbed her elbows, over where the dark spots and bruises still lingered. "So they had no reason to obey any of his orders when he wasn't around."

"Did they...?" Jaune dared not finish that inquiry.

Blake answered anyway. "They knew who I was. They hated me. I was a traitor. A disease. They knew all along about the marks I let go...and all the times I thought I'd gotten away with hitting them where it hurts." She shook as she cried. "I left the White Fang...to stop myself from going too far... Only to end up here...an assassin...far worse than anything I..."

Sergeant Arkos listened patiently, his hand rubbing circles on her back. He wanted to ask her if she was feeling any better. Lighter now that she said her peace. Though she must have gone through the same pangs when she opened up to her teammates. Come to think of it, he felt pushing this was unnecessary.

"Hey, I'm...I'm sorry for bringing it all up in the first place," he apologized again.

Blake mewled until she regained her breathing. "It's okay... I think he realized something before he left my cell. He said something about being blind and wandering."

Jaune straightened. "Huh. Did that mean anything?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I couldn't tell. But he sounded...different."

"Angry?"

"If he was, I don't think he was angry with me..."

Forked Lightning nodded. "Blake, I'm sorry for bringing this all up in the first place..."

"No, no. It's okay, it's okay. I guess you just wanted to know."

He deflated. "Yeah. Real nosy of me." He tapped her shoulder. "You look like you could use a good book right about now."

She snorted. "Good luck finding one on this ship."

Jaune simpered weakly. "Or we find the others. Want to show me where they are?"

Blake wiped her face with her hands and stepped away from the railing. "Sure. I'm done being miserable out here anyway."

* * *

Weiss sipped her tea while she mediated the chess game between Yang and Ren in the recreational cabin reserved for them. They had recuperated enough to be given permission to wander freely. Hillard may have led the cavalry but he was elusive when it came to what followed after.

"Checkmate."

Yang furrowed her brow, shrugged, and extended her mechanical appendage. "Oh, well. Good game."

Ren took it, grimacing slightly at the tight squeeze in their handshake. "Would you like a round, Weiss?"

She set down her cup. "Not today, unfortunately."

"Aww, afraid our little monk here is going to send your armies running?" teased the maimed brawler.

Weiss shot her a look that fully conveyed how disinterested she was in taking part. Her mind was still clouded in more pressing thoughts. Such as where Jaune was. He had already woken—courtesy of the noise coming from his room below deck—and should no longer be confined to his bunk. Additionally, she needed to know what Hillard had planned for them on their return to Vladivostok. There had to be something; she was sure of it!

The city was the safest haven they could run at this point. Protected by Allied interventionists with many of the populace unsupportive of the Bolsheviks. Or so she believed. She felt neither assured nor secure in the fact that the ten thousand American and British marines deployed there were dwarfed threefold by the 'allied' Japanese field armies sent to 'assist' the fledgling anti-Bolshevik government based there. If given a map, she could have argued sailing southeast to the Western colonies in Indochina and Malaya. However, that would mean more fuel needed than the ship probably carried as well as bypassing Japanese and Chinese naval patrols and the like. That was not to mention bad weather and pirates. And who knows what exactly was awaiting them in the southeast?

Weiss growled at the futility of such an argument in the face of the SSB. Besides, what did she know of the grand strategy behind this all? Much like these round wooden stubs dotting this board, they were all pawns to the monarchs running the world.

"Yo, Ice Queen!"

Weiss blinked up at Yang snapping her fingers in her face. "What?"

"You've suffocated that chess piece enough."

She looked down and released the pawn back onto the board. "I apologize."

"Is there something bothering you?" asked Ren.

The white-haired girl sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's Hillard. He's not...being very forthcoming."

"What do you mean? I thought he was your boss in this whole spy business," Yang chirped.

"He is our direct superior. And he has come to our rescue. But...I feel he's planning something."

The Dragon and the Serpent shared a glance then leaned over the table. It was a good thing most of the crew were busy or elsewhere otherwise there would be passing glances peering through the glass on the door.

Weiss set aside her tea. "The SSB knows about us. About Remnant, about what we can do, about our potential on the battlefield. They sent us to get you because of something. There has to be a reason why they wanted you out of the hands of the Chinese or the Japanese."

"We've already been through this," Yang reiterated. "What's your point?"

"I'm apprehensive of what will happen to us at Vladivostok. Anything could happen. I don't want to name any possibilities but I'm worried we won't find much respite when we get there."

"You're right," Ren agreed. "Keeping us out of the hands of the warlords cannot be the only reason the British sent you two to retrieve us. They could have pursued more direct alternatives yet they insisted on bringing us over the fold."

"We brought you over the fold," the former heiress declared. "No alternative solution can win me over seeing you and being with you all again."

The maimed brawler twirled a bishop piece between her fingers. "What about Adam?"

"What about him?" intoned Forked Lightning.

Weiss nearly leapt to her feet at his voice. There he stood, shuffling in with a timid Blake. The former heiress wanted to rush over, envelope herself around him, cry out his name into his shoulder. Instead, she remained seated. Stupefied, grateful, and overwhelmed.

"Adam's made his own choices," Jaune continued, striding over to occupy the seat next to his SSB partner. "We best make ours while we still can."

Ren was the first to break the quietude. "Glad to see you back on your feet, Jaune."

The blonde sergeant smiled and nodded. "Likewise, buddy."

"You're not motion sick," Yang observed.

"That's four months of constant river patrol for you."

Perhaps it was exhaustion or the lack of care he could give at this point. Either way, Weiss was startled when he swung his arm over her shoulder and pulled her in close to his side. It was sudden and abrupt. And nothing to complain about. "J-Jaune?"

"Hmm?" He turned to look at her. His eyes went wide. And he immediately released his hold. " _Putain_! I'm sorry, I..."

She shook her head. Beaming to her the edges of her cheeks. "No, no. I don't mind."

Before he could say anything more, she slipped her hand under his and locked their fingers together. She was not letting go.

"Well, well," crowed the very amused Dragon. "Got something new to tell us?"

Weiss turned to Jaune. Her smile faltered as her hope very well hung by its fingers off a cliff. He stared agape at the wall. Her heart raced and she squeezed his hand. She was being bold enough, she had made it clear what she truly felt about him. Was it too much to ask for reciprocation? Was it still too early? Was she simply...not the right one?

The seconds stretched onward with horror slowly creeping back into Yang's face; the maimed brawler must have realized how much this could backfire. Behind her, Ren and Blake did their best to appear supportive despite the inevitable.

Then Jaune closed his eyes and let out a long breath. When he opened them, he had a slight upward curl tugging at the edge of his lip.

"We're willing to try something."

* * *

He was given innumerable second chances, granted endless windows of opportunity, and he was going to seize the one he had given up on a long time ago. Forked Lightning was a war hero among many but he was still a youthful human being with a needy heart. He had been restored hope, he had been renewed purpose, he had been bestowed something to look forward to.

Returning home to Remnant felt so irrelevant in this moment. Jaune retained a sliver of faith in the possibility of going back to that world if only to see his friends and family again. Right now, however, he was more focused on building a home with this wonderful girl beside him and living a better life with his friends, old and new.

Weiss exhaled loudly while Yang recovered her vibrant cheer.

"Well, that's some good news I could drink to," the Dragon chirped proudly. "You think they got any alcohol on this boat?"

"Yang," Blake drawled.

"Oh, don't be such a killjoy."

Ren chortled with his arms folded. "I would not advise celebrating in that manner, Yang."

"Seriously? You guys are no fun."

"It's fun to sit here and relax with you, guys," Jaune said.

"I couldn't agree more," Weiss added.

Yang blew raspberries as she childishly sat back down. Blake shook her head mirthfully while Ren reset the pieces on the board.

"Chess, anyone?" the Serpent offered.

"I haven't tried in a while," remarked the Ghost who slid onto the other side of the table.

The Dragon snorted. "Good luck with him. Guy's a grandmaster."

Lady Schnee raised her brow. "Ren, aren't you proficient at wei qi as well?"

Sergeant Arkos chuckled when Yang whined at Ren's admission of prowess with board games. Blake was herself bewildered at how fast she was being put on the defensive and she scrambled to salvage what little victories she can, expending her valuable pieces quicker than she anticipated. He glanced to his side where Weiss had taken to leaning her head on his shoulder while she held back giggles at her teammates' expense.

This.

This was what he had fought for.

This was what he had bled countless times on the battlefield for.

All the sacrifices he had made, all the pain he had been forced to go through, had been for this homely scene. A perfect scenario that was worth a painting to be hung up above the fireplace in the living room. He had come this far—no— _they_ had come this far _together_. For a long time, he believed he had no purpose, that he had been blindly throwing himself in danger because he was ordered to. Then he found he was not alone. That there was a reason why he was spared death so as to be banished to this realm.

It could have been fate. Or heartless happenstance. It did not matter anymore because he was here and he had something to live for.

The future may be murky and things may go downhill again. Even then, this son of an Arc held more confidence than he ever thought he could muster to face the unknown. Whatever Hillard was planning, he would challenge it. He would walk up to the major's face and tell him to stuff it if it meant being separated again and thrown into the abyss to dredge up worthless ghosts.

In the pit of his stomach, he believed the SSB was far from done with him, far from done with any of them. That detractive voice in the back of his head whispered that this was the beginning of something more, something so big that it was nigh impossible to escape. Forked Lightning struck the voice down so he could listen to something else.

"Jaune," Weiss hummed. "It's been a while since I've last written a letter home."

"Yeah," Jaune answered. "Me neither."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: February 5, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: February 7, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 7, 2019**

 **NOTE: Just the final chapter and the epilogue/s left.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _Je suis fier de vous_. = I'm proud of you. [French]**

 ** _Regarde ce que j'ai fait_. = Look what I made. [French]**

 ** _Ils l'ont signe_. = They signed it. [French]**

 ** _Bien s_ _û_ _r_ , _ils l'ont fait_. = Of course, they did. [French]**

 ** _Bon travail_. _Ton livre_ , _je l'aime_. = Good job. Your book, I like it. [French]**

 ** _Tu fais_? _Merci beaucoup_! = You do? Thank you so much! [French]**


	48. December 1, 1919 - ACT III end

_December 1, 1919_

* * *

 _Dearest Anya,_

 _It has been a long time since I have written to you and the others. It was only now that I have been made able to communicate with you again._

 _I am writing to you from Vladivostok. The city is as beautiful as you have said if you discount the many soldiers occupying every street. The loyalists are bolstered by interventionists from the other Great Powers. But I lament their minuscule presence and the existing animosity between them. I pity more the Czechoslovaks who have to bleed more than they already have in the defense of the city._

 _I can say that we are under the diplomatic protection of the British. We have been accorded a fine estate on a property overlooking the city with the same luxuries as those we have enjoyed at Tsarskoye Selo. I hold no doubts that we will be staying here for long given the on-going state of affairs._

 _Much has happened since I departed the comforts of our home and I regrettably cannot put them all in a single letter. Rest assured that for all that has happened, I am well. I have seen many places, experienced many things some of which I would not wish on anyone, and I have met many colleagues, old and new. When we see each other again, I will be sure to share everything. Should you ask, of course. Though I will spare you some details as they are far too grim that I wish only to forget them._

 _I will spare myself your ridicule and say that Sergeant Jaune Arc is well. He is with me now. And we have friends who are with us. They are friends from our real home. Two of them are members of my team and the other is a member of Jaune's team. They can be rowdy and rambunctious at times but I hold them in high regard._

 _My teammates are Yang Xiao-Long and Blake Belladonna. I love them dearly as I you and the rest. They are sisters to me and it behooves me to invite them to be with us. I admit I thought I had lost all hope of never seeing them again but one can never predict what one would come across on a journey. They have been with us through thick and thin. You would love them._

 _Jaune's teammate is Lie Ren. He is reserved yet holds wisdom that would many would pay to heed. He is a skilled fighter and a pacifist if it came to it. He has made impressive journeys and I'm sure Lyoshka would be thrilled to hear tales of them. He is very respectful and is a ready ear to anyone wishing to vent._

 _There are also the men under Jaune's command. I am sure you remember the soldiers he led when we were still in Arkhangelsk. They are with us as well. It was surprising to find them coming to our aid when we least expected but they have trained hard and served admirably in the field of fire._

 _There is much more I wish to share but there is only so much a single letter can convey. Maybe this reaches you before we can return. If it does, pray for us that we can come home alive and well. All of us._

 _Give my love to Lyoshka, Olga, Maria, Tatiana, Nikolay Alexandrovich, Alexandra Fedorovna, and the rest. I hope to see you soon._

 _With all my love,_

 _Weiss_

* * *

"Wow, Weiss," Yang drawled, a grin stretching from ear to ear while her arm motioned exaggeratedly over her chest. "This is the finest praise I have ever received from anyone. I'm flattered."

The former heiress undid her tiara to let her ponytail drop over her back. "Oh, hush you."

"You're very liberal with the word 'love' here," highlighted Blake.

"What can you say about Ice Queen? She's found inspiration." The Dragon ducked with a chuckle from a hairbrush that came sailing over her head.

"I did not ask for any of your insinuations," hissed the former heiress. "I only asked for your opinion on whether or not I have been too flowery with my delivery."

"Is this how you write letters?" intoned the cat faunus as she pored through the paragraphs. "Because you sound like an author penning a classy romance novel."

Weiss raised her brow as she recovered her brush and sat down in front of their shared mirror to comb her hair. "Do I?"

Blake set handed her back her draft. "It's not a bad thing. I mean, a lot of people still address each other like this. Or the rich aristocratic ones."

"I'm wealthy and I didn't talk like that," Yang chirped.

"You _were_ wealthy up until your compound was raided by the Japanese and most everything we've been hiding in your basement has been catalogued in evidence boxes," outlined the white-haired girl.

The maimed brawler flopped back onto her own bed, one of three in their private quarters, and groaned into the sheets. "Ugh, don't remind me. I've had enough of that rubbed into my face back in that shit hole of a prison."

"How about we forget Dairen and think about the future," suggested the cat faunus.

"My point exactly," added Weiss. "Such as your new livelihoods once we get back to the United States. I have a few suggestions."

"Anything but a maid or farmer, please," Yang mumbled.

"Seconded," Blake muttered behind a novel.

Lady Schnee reaffixed her tiara and occupied the cushioned bench lining sills of their window.

The Russian port city of Vladivostok stretched over the horizon, just above the canopies of the trees surrounding the manor requisitioned by the anti-Bolshevik interim government and surrendered to the British to act as a safe haven for asylum-seekers. For a brief moment, she envisioned the ominous winter fogged that often enveloped Yekaterinburg...and the Bolshevik guards standing outside on the lawn.

She shook her head. No. That was all in the past. The men idling below were part of a detachment of British marines whose duty was safeguarding them. They were completely different than the radicalized conscripts who were almost always drunk on the job. There was a flicker of movement and she saw the sentries stiffen suddenly to raise quick salutes. She pressed her head close to the glass catch whoever higher-up happened to... Oh.

Jaune and Ren strode into view, chatting and perhaps reminiscing about better days. The former craned his head up to their window. He smiled and waved. Weiss beamed and waved back. What a warm feeling.

"Ooh, Lady Killer's down there?" crowed Yang.

"Yang," groaned Blake.

A shame it was not warm enough to suppress the December chill creeping up her bare skin. The former heiress pulled her legs up to her knees to give space for her two teammates to squeeze into their enclosed balcony. Yang waved vigorously back down while pulling in Blake to do the same.

On the lawn below, the two Hunstmen sniggered as they waved again then strode further down to some benches close to the edge of the property. Weiss trailed after them until she hovered over the horizon to the city skyline and the Sea of Japan stretching beyond. Vladivostok was hauntingly beautiful.

* * *

"Vladivostok is an impressive city, I must say."

Jaune sighed deeply while Ren merely raised a brow at the sudden intrusion. "Yeah, it is," the former grumbled.

"Why so morose, Sergeant Arkos?" pressed Lieutenant Vastel from behind their bench.

"With all due respect, lieutenant," Forked Lightning shot back over his shoulder, "you are coming off more as a bad omen."

Vastel arced his brow. "Oh? What brought this on if I may ask?"

The blonde sergeant scoffed. "A sense of familiarity."

A deep laugh that rippled over their heads. "Perhaps that is so."

Jaune caught Ren staring back at him to which he simply shrugged and returned to admiring the view without any negativity ruining the moment. Both heard the distinguishable clicking of a flint lighter. A puff of smoke wafted above them until the smell of nicotine tainted the air.

"Smoke?" offered the lieutenant.

"No thank you," politely declined the Serpent Monk.

"You know I don't smoke," growled Forked Lightning. He shifted on his seat to twist on his waist so he could face the senior officer with a full glare. Still, he was a subordinate and he tempered his budding irritation to smooth out his demand. "What do you wish to discuss, sir?"

Vastel dragged long and hard on his cigarette then regarded them both. A sullen mood fell over his mien and he tapped the blonde sergeant on the shoulder. His voice lacked the domineering authority that made him intimidating to even his own allies. "Home is much farther than the navigator suggested."

"Pardon, sir?"

The lieutenant's hand slipped off his shoulder to dangle limply by his side. There was a distinguishable dip in his stance as the man continued to puff and drag. "This is difficult for me as it is for everyone of us here. I am only here to relieve stress, if you do not mind."

Jaune stood to face him. There was no deceit, no readable angle, no discernible agenda. The man was genuinely upset. "No. No, I don't. Is there anything you wish to get off your chest? Sir?"

Vastel sighed. "I am tempted to make you aware of our recent findings. The most I can allow myself to give you is this: _pr_ _é_ _parez vous_."

Sergeant Arkos froze. Brace yourselves.

He glanced away to find the grass uprooted and the smell of smoke wafting under his nostrils. It was deceptive, a part of him argued. However, there was no denying that faint whistling ringing in his ears that preceded the shells of artillery ripping up the earth. Followed immediately by the battle cries of the Imperial German army charging in droves over the cratered fields. A hand shook his shoulder until the blurry voice resonated clearly. A hand shook his shoulder and a blurry voice filtered into his ears.

"Jaune!"

"Huh?"

"You spaced out," Ren said.

"What?"

"You spaced out. Lieutenant Vastel has already left."

Jaune darted around to find that the scarred tower of a man had indeed left them be with only the odor of burnt cigarette smoke lingering under their nostrils. The pair of sentries standing watch merely remained ramrod straight, their neutral miens expressing their disinterest or ignorance in their conversation.

The blonde sergeant exhaled back towards the skyline. "That guy...is cryptic."

"Home is much farther than the navigator suggested," Ren echoed.

"What did he mean by that?" Silence. He turned to find his friend staring intensely at the grass. "Ren?"

"Home..." The Serpent Monk sat back down, his gaze never wavering. "Respite is far from coming."

Jaune felt it difficult to breathe for a moment. He glowered at the blades of grass. " _Merde de putain_... I knew this was going to happen. I knew something like this was going to happen."

"Jaune, this cannot mean anything concrete."

He shrugged off his friend's arm. "I'm not jumping to conclusions. Not yet. But if we are being kept here longer than we should've..."

"What are you going to do?"

Sergeant Arkos buried his head in his hands. "I...I don't know. I just...I just want to go home, Ren. I just want to go home. All of us."

"We will," Ren reassured. "I believe we will."

"We will," he nodded back. "Just not now. Goodness knows...the SSB isn't going to let us go anytime soon."

"What are you thinking?"

He breathed into his palms to find this fingers moist with his own sweat. "I'm thinking of getting us out of this mess before we get roped deeper into it."

* * *

It was clear the grand dining hall was meant to house fine banquets staffed by devoted servants. In the political storm of the Russian Civil War however, the meals were below aristocratic standards and those who wished to eat were free to gather their own food from the buffet table on the side. No one was complaining however. Not even the soldiers who were supposed to guard the dozen or so people they knew so little about. Strangely, Hillard was absent. Probably having already eaten or too busy to eat. Still, it was not healthy for whatever existing rapport he had with Erzengel.

Weiss set her plate down beside Jaune who remained picking at his morsels since the beginning of the hour.

"Jaune, are you alright?"

Sergeant Arkos blinked out of his reverie to find Lady Schnee's hand squeezing his arm. "Uh, yeah. I'm...I'm fine. It's...it's nothing you should bother yourself with."

"It's not nothing." She let go to tip his chin towards her. "Whatever it is that is bothering you, it would also bother us, too. It would bother me."

"Weiss, this would only upset you—"

She cupped his face, ignoring the inquisitive glances from Yang, Blake, and Ren. Some of Erzengel even spared curious glances though a loud enough grunt from Vastel seated at the far end of the long table convinced them to wisely turn away. "Better I be upset now than be disturbed later at a crucial time where I need to stay focused. The same can be said of everyone else."

Jaune looked away. "Even I can't understand it. I can't tell you what I can't understand."

"If that is the case, I want to help you understand it. It is best we settle this before it becomes a burden."

The blonde sergeant set down his fork. He raised his head to be met with the curious leers from his fellow Beacon alumni. Yang gave up trying to seem disinterested and simply shrugged. Blake raised her brow while Ren nodded across from him.

He felt Weiss squeeze his hand and he found her silently pleading. Not for answers. But for trust. Trust and communication, the building blocks of this...relationship they had both begun to explore together. Jaune covered her palm with his own. Then he faced his friends across the table. First things first, though...

"Um, would you excuse us for a bit?" Sergeant Arkos audibly requested.

Glances went about until one of the guards nodded and ushered his comrades out the dining room, carrying their own plates laden with food. The cooking and serving staff had retired behind the kitchen doors. Vastel harrumphed and followed after the guards with his own half-empty plate along with Laval and the rest of Erzengel.

"Did you have to order them to leave?" Blake raised.

"I didn't say they should," Jaune defended.

"Well, we have our privacy. What is it?" Yang pressed.

"Guys..." He felt the weight of their attention bear down on him heavier than Weiss's grip on his arm. He took one final gander to confirm that they were indeed alone. "I have a feeling we're not leaving Vladivostok anytime soon."

Blinks. Stares. A hanging jaw.

He continued. "I've always had this lingering suspicion. After all that's happened, I don't think the SSB is going to simply let us go."

"They have to. They will," Weiss snapped. "They can't hold us forever!"

He shut his eyes. "No, they can't. But that's not going to stop them from trying to milk for us for all we're worth. It's just a feeling, guys. No need to get too worked up on it."

"What gave you that idea anyway?" Yang dredged.

"This afternoon, down at the garden. Vastel gave Ren and I a warning. He told us to prepare."

Weiss vehemently sprouted denial. "Th-that can mean anything. He could have worded it differently! Perhaps he meant prepare for departure or prepare for, for..."

"War," Blake completed.

The table fell deathly quiet.

Jaune cleared his throat. "It's only a feeling. I might be wrong. I hope I'm wrong."

It was difficult for everyone to finish the rest of their dinner.

* * *

Weiss's hand remained hovering over the blank page. She could not find neither the words nor the will to pen a new draft for her letter to Anastasia, let alone throw away the one she nearly sent. The first was a product of relief and brimming with hope. Now? Jaune was right. He saw this coming. And she did, too. They had brought their friends to the SSB...not entirely to deny the abuse of their services by the wrong people.

No.

Everyone was flawed; everyone was prone to making mistakes; everyone was capable of doing very, very wrong things. Even the SSB. Whatever it was they were planning—what Hillard was doing on their behalf—boiled down to the bitter feeling in her gut that screamed that they were far from over. Adversely, this was shaping up to be the beginning of something she never wanted.

The British Empire had successfully acquired and utilized its secret weapon: Huntsmen.

Weiss released a breath and dropped the pen she was holding. Another futile attempt at clearing her head so she can write. She unceremoniously pushed herself away from the table. The grating of the chair legs against the floor snapped her teammates out of their little banter.

"Hey," Yang croaked, "you alright?"

"No," she whispered back.

Blake knelt by the armrest of her chair. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes, please..."

So they talked. Weiss held nothing back. She minced no words. And her teammates patiently listened, albeit wincing and grimacing at her outbursts. Within the hour, she spent herself and she sat back down on her bed with dried tears and her hands balled into fists over her lap. Her anger had gone, her pent up frustration expended, leaving only despair.

Yang and Blake sat beside her, horrified. They understood. The former took the initiative and slung her arm over her shoulder to pull her into a hug. The latter completed their embrace. And the white-haired girl who was once the heiress to a massive business empire in a universe they seemingly could never go back to cried again.

* * *

Jaune stopped short of twisting the handle on the door to the room he shared with Ren. He craned his head towards the staccato of boots on marble floor. In the late evening hours, under the faint glow of their handheld lanterns, he could make out Vastel strolling down the corridor. He released his grip and stood at attention. More out of habit than actual respect for the older man.

"Lieutenant."

"Sergeant."

An exchange of nods and Vastel shuffled past. Only to freeze in his tracks when Jaune said, "We're not leaving Vladivostok. _Oui_?"

The lieutenant to face him. " _Oui_."

"We're going to be redeployed. _Oui_?"

"... _Oui_."

"We're going to fight the Bolsheviks again. _Oui_?"

A dimly lit grimace hideously disfigured by shrapnel from Chinese artillery challenged his curiosity. " _Je ne sais pas_."

He did not know? If that was the case, then what did he know? " _Qu'est-ce que tu sais_? Lieutenant?"

Vastel regarded him with his bright irises piercing through the scars marring what had once been a handsome face. He then turned his back on him and resumed walking. "... Goodnight, sergeant."

Sergeant Arkos did not press any further. He traced his superior's shadow until the light he carried faded around the corner. Jaune got his answers; answers that he did not like in the slightest. He felt helpless, powerless to resist the impending yoke hovering over their necks. It was frustrating. His fist tightened and he caught himself before he slammed his knuckles against the plaster.

He took deep breathes and entered his room, Ren having already retired for the night. Snow crested the window sill which meant the winter season would be bearing down in the coming days. Specks of light flashed through the darkness, hinting at the life pulsating in Vladivostok.

Jaune settled into bed and blew out the wicker. Sleep eluded him for the next several minutes. Eventually, he drifted off after musing over the future he wanted to have with Weiss. And how far from it they all were.

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: February 12, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: February 13, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 13, 2019**

 **NOTE: And that brings an end to Act III, ladies and gentlemen!**

 **Whoo-boy! It's been quite the journey, folks. I've wanted to write a serious story from beginning to end and I'm very happy with what I've accomplished with _Archangel_. To think this all began with an idea, a check on the calendar, some Google searching, and listening to the OST of _Battlefield 1 - In The Name Of The Tsar_.**

 **First things first: _thank you_. Immense thank you to everyone who took the time to read this story, who marked this up on their 'favorites' and 'follows' lists, who left reviews, who offered to help iron out details and translations. I am very grateful to all of you regardless of how you feel about the story. I could very well hope that I have entertained you all to the best of my writing ability.**

 **Second important thing I would like to say: _I do not ship White Knight_. Never. Not at all. Not even from the beginning. That is not to say I despise White Knight. No. I just don't advocate it. I have no problem with it and I don't mind if it ends up as canon. Personally, I was never sold on the ship. I realised that when I was going through Act I. So I decided to make this a self-imposed challenge to see if I can actually write a full-length story utilizing a ship that I'm not on board with. And it was _fun_!**

 **In case anyone was wondering, I got the inspiration to write this from reading a lot of RWBY fics that used World War I as its setting. I was disappointed that they were, as of this posting (Feb. 13, 2019), discontinued/abandoned. So I thought, 'I'll just write my own.'**

 **The timing was entirely coincidental and I didn't realise I was posting this work of history-based fan fiction almost 100 years to the day of the actual events. From there, I pushed myself to progress the story in accordance to the dates to keep up the '100-years-apart-thing' going on for a while.**

 **Now. This may be the final chapter and the end of Act III. But this isn't the end of the story. Not yet.**

 **There are still the epilogue/s. They would detail the subsequent ideas I have involving our characters in this Interbellum AU.**

 **Thank you all again.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Je ne sais pas.**_ **= I don't know.**

 _ **Qu'est-ce que tu sais**_ **? = What do you know?**


	49. EPILOGUE I - December 2, 1919

_December 2, 1919_

* * *

Vladivostok was not as cold as Arkhangelsk but it was still below freezing and, once again disproving stereotypes, that was uncomfortable enough for an Atlesian such as her.

Weiss held out her hands to savor the warmth from the fireplace in the manor's cavernous lodge. Many decorative luxuries remained from the previous tsarist owners ranging from ornate paintings to the porcelain animal statue nestled between a pair of potted plants. Replace the cream wallpaper with a layer of white paint and the wooden boards with marble and stone and this would come close to resembling the interior of the Schnee mansion.

The white-haired girl rested her bare legs on the bristled carpet despite the chase lounge and the cushioned leather chairs angled towards the fireplace. Her posture was admittedly unbecoming of a lady but there was no one to impress. And frankly, neither she nor any of the roaming British guards cared.

"Hey, Ice Queen."

The former heiress lazily turned her head to the Dragon striding to sit by her side dressed rather more conservatively than she had ever seen her before. In fact, the flowing mauve sarafan suited her rather well. "Hello, Yang."

Yang crossed her legs together and stretched out her fleshy arm to the fire. "Can't believe it's cold here as it is outside."

Weiss shrugged. "That's Russia for you. The weather seeps in no matter how thick the walls."

"Didn't you get confined in a summer palace?"

"Just because it was spacious does not mean it was warm. On the contrary, the wider rooms meant colder air. And it's called a 'summer palace' for a reason, Yang. We didn't have a choice staying there for the winter."

The Dragon snickered. "O~oh... That makes sense then."

Lady Schnee raised her brow. "What makes sense?"

"Big, wide rooms with big, wide beds," cooed Yang complete with her dancing brows. "They're meant to be shared. For warmth. And it takes a lot of body heat to get comfy, don't you think?"

Weiss groaned into her palms. Yes, she got the joke. No, she did not want to imagine anything that came of it! "Go back to using puns."

Her teammate mirthfully elbowed her in the arm. "Hey, hey, good cheer helps beat the cold, you know."

"You do know there's a couch behind you, right?" intoned Blake. The cat faunus strolled over, also dressed in a sarafan and nursing a mug of warm tea. She bypassed said couch and occupied Weiss's vacant right.

The Dragon craned her head back. "Is that hot cocoa?"

The Ghost frowned. "It's raw tea. No sugar. Chocolate is rare and expensive."

"We are not in your mansion anymore, Yang," interjected Lady Schnee. "If you're still looking for sweeteners, you are going to have to go downtown to the market." And everyone knew how risky that task was.

Their arrival at the city docks in the frigid morning hours the previous day meant having to bypass fickle dock workers. Surprisingly, instead of being harangued by suspicious Japanese officers wondering why an unregistered Japanese merchantman was operated by pale-faced Westerners dressed in Japanese uniforms, they were swiftly received by British marines who whisked them away to their accommodations here at the estate.

The taxi rides accorded them brief tours of Vladivostok. The architecture was notably akin to the domiciles of early Mantle colonists. Then there were the troops. Many cast them appeared a bit too inquisitive. The sparse pockets of British troops they passed were either intermingling with the Americans or guarding the property. Interestingly, there were Italian troops patrolling the streets while keeping distance from the Chinese detachments who were also keeping their distance from the more numerous Japanese.

The few Russian troops they witnessed were either riding off to war or riding back from war. At least, from what they had heard, the Czechoslovak Legion, one of the main reasons for these military expeditions in the first place, had not only safely arrived from their remarkable trek across Siberia but were also lending their aid to the defense and policing of the city.

Yang dropped flat on her back, letting her mane sprawl wildly over the carpet as she groused at the ceiling. "Ugh. This civil war sucks."

"I wouldn't downplay it like that," intoned the former heiress. "True, some commodities have become delicacies now and...bullets are worth more than bread in some markets."

"The city isn't starving so things aren't so bleak," Blake added. "Besides, the interventionists are bringing in a lot of supplies."

The Dragon raised a finger from the floor. "Yeah, because there are five, six, seven different armies from different countries that need feeding."

"Too much, too few," Weiss morosely lamented. She sighed at her teammates wondering what she meant. "The British could only spare a thousand troops here in the Far East and a lot of them are miles deep to the northwest holding their own. The Americans have ten times more and the Japanese six times more than all the other expeditionary forces combined. And who knows what's left of the Czechoslovak Legion after what they've been through..."

"Judging by the state of affairs," Blake added. "The Allies are stretching themselves too thin. Russia is a geographically gargantuan nation. Siberia alone is too big for the interventionists to pacify. Not even the Japanese, with their numerical advantage, can hold on for too long. This is territory they're unfamiliar with and they're going up against the locals who are masters of the land."

Yang sat up, rubbing the fleshy stub of her arm. Her mien was unsure and gaze distant. "Hey. About our talk last night... Um, do you think...we're really going to be committed?"

"Committed to the fighting here? I dissent!" Weiss held herself. Her fists unclenched and she once more stretched her fingers against the warmth of the fireplace. Slow, deep breathes. "I dissent. I have had enough already. I only want to go home."

The cat faunus rested her hand over her shoulder while rubbing her steaming mug of tea over her bare arm. "I agree with you completely. But what if that actually happens? What then?"

The former heiress deflated. "I don't know..."

Yang nudged her. "Hey, in any case, we're here for you. We're together. You won't have to worry about that."

Blake chimed in. "This is going to sound off but...there's so much that needs to be done here. And I feel we have to contribute somehow. A lot of people are in desperate need of help and there's only so much the interventionists can do." A resigned sigh. "Then again, we all need some down time."

"We can't change the world," Yang added. "Not in the way things are. A Great War followed by a hundred other smaller wars that would lead to even more trouble down the road. It's like the fallout from our own Great War on Remnant. Only twenty times worse..."

Weiss remembered their many classes that dealt with such the subjects. Professor Oobleck, despite his quirks, drilled into their heads the unchecked consequences of Remnant's Great War. Radicalism, extremism, and toxic ideologies poisoned the minds of those who were born after the fighting. From henceforth were born groups such as the White Fang, a movement with a noble goal that devolved into an organization bent on exacting revenge no matter the cost.

"I'm not going to lie," the Dragon continued. "Blake has a point. A civil war means a lot of hurting and a lot of problems. And a lot of people who could use a hand."

"And they either can't or won't be getting any because of the fighting," the Ghost opined. Her faunus ears folded over her scalp when she shuddered. "I can already imagine some of the things they'd be having me do if I get roped into this."

"Ah, _excusez-moi_ , _mesdames_?"

The three girls turned to regard Bazouille standing sheepishly on the threshold of the carpet. Despite his battlefield experience, his bravery during the Dairen raid, and penning an adorable storybook, the lanky grenadier was still a young man barely a year older than them with vagaries common among those of his age. If he was not behaving as a soldier, he was a common adolescent who sometimes lacked the confidence to communicate properly with others, women in particular. Much like Jaune.

" _Oui_?" Weiss reciprocated with a raised brow.

Baz twiddled his thumbs before straightening himself. " _D_ _é_ _sol_ _é_ _de vous d_ _é_ _ranger_."

" _Non_ , _non_. _C'est bien_. _Qu'est-ce que_ _ç_ _'est_?"

He cleared his throat to announce that they were being summoned to the conference room by Hillard. The rest of SSB Unit Erzengel was already there along with Jaune and Ren.

The former heiress sighed and got to her feet. " _Oui_ , _oui_. _On arrive_." She gestured at her two teammates. "Come on."

"You know, you should really teach me how to speak French," Yang chirped during their walk down the corridor.

"Remind me again why I should?"

"It's a sexy language! Don't tell me you don't feel a little tingly when you hear those rolling 'r's," the Dragon tittered.

Both Weiss and Blake rolled their eyes. "I'm better at Russian. Get your lessons from Jaune."

"Huh, you sure about that? You wouldn't mind me and your boyfriend practicing? Alone in a study room? One-on-one tutoring with no other supervision? Eh, eh?"

The former heiress smacked the back of her teammate's head. "Go back to using puns."

* * *

The long varnished table in the conference hall served to divide the subordinates from their superiors. Major Wilfred Hillard had his hands planted firmly on a map spread across the middle with Lieutenant Thibald Vastel covering his right flank. Opposite him were Laval and the fire teams. Three of whom stood to surrender their seats to the three Huntresses-in-training out of courtesy.

Weiss felt Jaune's hand rest over her shoulder and she glanced up to catch his uncertainty. Ren remained firm and unreadable beside him. Blake flashed her an uneasy glance while Yang eyed the rest of those present from where she was seated on her left.

Hillard straightened, revealing eyes cracked and baggy from lack of sleep.

"His Royal Majesty, King George the Fifth, wishes to extend his utmost commendations towards you all for performing your duties in this operation," he announced. "His Excellency, Prime Minister David Lloyd George, likewise extends his utmost commendations. The War Office and the Admiralty also express their highest regards to you all. Lastly, on behalf of the SSB, congratulations each and every one of you on a job well done."

There was no applause. Only uneasy mumbles and shifty glances.

"His Excellency has recommended that you continue to contribute to the enforcement of stability and order in the region for the duration of our presence here in Russia."

Weiss felt her breath leave her lungs. The leadership of the British Empire endorsed their prolonged toiling. The air in the room suddenly felt so tense.

"In light of this successful mission, the War Office and the Admiralty have deemed it necessary to expand the scope of operations for the duration of the expedition. As ordered by the War Office, Erzengel is hereby renamed 'Archangel' and expanded into a specialized platoon under the command of Lieutenant Vastel here. Miss Belladonna, Miss Xiao-Long, and Mister Lie..."

The former heiress felt her breath catch in her throat. Reshuffled? Blake, Yang, and Ren? This had to mean that... Oh, no. This was happening. What she greatly dreaded for the past few months was coming to fruition right in front of her.

"...you three are henceforth integrated into Archangel. You are now agents of the Crown. Sergeant Arkos, Lady Schnee, you are to resume operating as per your prerogative with slight changes."

"What, pray tell, are these changes?" worded Jaune through clenched teeth.

"You will be heading a specialist team comprising yourself, Lady Schnee, and your three friends here. It would be redundant to explain the reasoning behind this arrangement. You will still adhere to the chain of command."

The room was deathly quiet.

No one wanted to say a word. Awkward, uneasy glances danced about with subtle gestures that spoke volumes of discomfort. Weiss, despite her bubbling anger at these developments, could feel the intensity radiating off of Jaune and she held both his hands in a silent attempt to calm them both down. Blake and Yang both joined in, themselves trying to keep their heads cool. Ren was among the few in the hall who remained stone-faced. Too stone-faced.

"I know none of you here welcome this development," the major intoned. "However, this is far above me, above our commanders here with us."

Forked Lightning released a long, loud breath that drew the attention of the rest of Archangel. There was an unsettling fire burning behind his sapphires. He spoke softly but carried a drop of venomous conviction that made Vastel express doubt towards Hillard. "So...we're nothing more than tools, then."

"Jaune, I do not consider you as such—"

Jaune cut him off. "It doesn't even matter anyway what you think. You knew who we were and what we could do. We could have impacted the world if we wanted to. But there's only so much a Huntsman or a Huntress could ever accomplish. Now? You have a whole team of them. Five people with superpowers, hardened by battle, at your disposal."

Hillard was unmoved. "Your point, sergeant?"

"What do you want from us?"

Weiss, Blake, Yang, and Ren pored across the table into the major. The Frenchmen surrounding them waited unsteadily for a response. Vastel, his unspoken right hand, shuffled away to gawk at his superior in an unusual display of uncertainty.

The senior officer stared evenly back at them. "... We want you to serve the British Empire."

There it was. The admission that confirmed everything. The former heiress grit her teeth. This has indeed happened. She had given her life to save the one she loved. Forced to dredge up her friends and dragged through the unforgiving earth, flayed and bleeding, to see them safe and freed from the clutches of cruel warlords. Only to return to a yoke forged by a victorious empire.

Jaune nodded. "As I thought."

Having been raised by a shrewd businessman, it became natural for Weiss to haggle. The words departed her lips before she reined them in. "And if we refuse?"

To which the major answered in clear, chilling, calloused words. "You will not find respite. We have a saying, Lady Schnee: 'the sun never sets on the British Empire.' We have expended much to restore the order that has kept the world as it was before the war. There is no telling what you could have done, let alone unwittingly unleashed, if left roaming unfettered or shackled by those willing to sow chaos."

"We know restraint!" argued Blake. "We can hold back and we have!"

"Do you honestly believe you are infallible?" barked Hillard. "You were enslaved by the Japanese, Miss Belladonna. The Chinese did the same to you, Miss Xiao-Long. You are not above this as well, Mister Lie. You may have been an ascetic but you surrendered your services to those whom you sympathized with, especially towards Sun Chung-shan."

Yang's growls could not drown out the strangled noise that came from Ren of all people.

"The SSB continues to grow. Our army is recovering its strength and our navy can reach our colonies in the corners of the world. Do not discount our allies as well."

Weiss hissed, "The alternative is worse."

The major hummed. "Indeed. You can walk away. You can refuse. I will not hold it against you. However, know that such a decision can not be ignored. And I will not be there to temper the wrath of the Crown."

The former heiress pressed her hands together. There was no better alternative. This was their endgame. The British Empire had colonies all over the known the world with immense resources and allies among the French and the Americans.

The five of them? With a dozen other friends who had families of their own? Susceptible to harassment, blackmail, extortion...underhanded measures to enforce cooperation. Or deny their usefulness to anyone else. They could fight back, bite back, draw blood. Yet that could only do so much. And, as the Great War had demonstrated, being bled dry was not enough to snuff out the stubborn fighting spirit. A spirit that drove the body to get what it wanted. They could flee as far as they could. Alas, that was not a life she was willing to slip into.

Weiss pressed down her bitterness to uphold a semblance of calm. For the sake of Laval and the fire teams who were visibly disturbed by the general animosity.

"So that's how it is then," echoed Jaune. His knees buckled and she had to stand to keep him from dropping to his knees. "All that time...since the beginning...when you came to me at the Marne... You were screening me...you used Causson to get close to me, to study me..."

"The anomalies surrounding you on the battlefield was what drew us to you," Hillard admitted. "The same is true with your friends. None of you were very discreet."

"So you had to have known about Weiss, then," snarled the blonde sergeant. "You wanted her too. The circumstances were perfect... France was too risky a battlefield to observe me... Russia was better...extreme temperatures, small sporadic attacks, more control on where I'm going to fight... And the Romanovs... It wasn't about the Romanovs, was it...they were the perfect alibi to put me to work...and get her too... Two birds with one stone..."

The major said nothing.

The former heiress did. "Well, here we are. Agents of the Crown. Exactly as you intended."

"Weiss—"

"No. It's okay, Yang." Her head was clear. This is the reality she had been expecting. How could she go against it without causing any more harm? "... What more do you want from us?"

* * *

Jaune was lethargic. There had been enough omens to foretell this resolution. That did not lessen the impact it had on his will. The arms of his friends kept him standing until he snapped out of his funk to catch the venom dripping from Weiss's voice.

"... What more do you want from us?" he heard her ask.

Hillard twisted the map on the table and pushed it over to them. The blonde sergeant received it, spreading the large atlas for all to see. Lines, curves, arrows, and notes sullied the geography encompassing the entire Eurasian continent. Among the many dots and names, the Russian city of Irkutsk was encircled thrice over. Sections of Manchuria were ringed in vague annotations. Halfway across the continent, the Baltic territories were marked by a single word: 'Freikorps.'

"We want your expertise."

"What...is this?" voiced Yang as the rest of Archangel hovered dumbly over the map.

Jaune reeled control of himself so he and Weiss could properly go over the notes. This was how much the British knew—or how much they were willing to disclose to them—of threats to their interests. Each mark were miles apart, spanning borders of vast provinces and small nations.

"Among our many pressing matters, we have three that are far too dire to be ignored," the major briefed. He pointed to the sectors bearing his handwriting. "We have the most immediate problem of the provisional government teetering on collapse."

"The Whites are losing the war," echoed Weiss. Without a doubt, their expedition was nearing its foregone conclusion. All that effort in Northern Russia was in vain but Jaune had since stopped caring.

"... Due south is a melting pot for trouble that spread beyond its borders and complicate our mission here in the north. Your dear friend Adam Taurus is still gallivanting about doing God knows what. We simply cannot have that lest he undo years of constructive effort in the Far East. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Belladonna?"

Blake's faunus ears folded into her scalp. "I...I can't say."

"What's the third problem?" redirected Yang.

Hillard gestured across the map to Eastern Europe, in particular the Baltic territories 'liberated' from the crumbling Russian Empire. "The Freikorps. Embittered German veterans rallying around flags of their old regiments, building their own Teutonic paradises if not out of delusion or spite."

Jaune frowned. The British was worried about problems far beyond their borders. "Do explain, sir. How do these 'Freikorps' factor into your interests?"

"I would spare you the politics behind this. I personally find it boorish. Besides, you will discern it in your own time. What does interest me, and many among the SSB, is the fact that the Freikorps have been making rapidly tremendous strides against the Bolsheviks. So rapidly tremendous that I am inclined to believe that there is more to their forces than meets the eye."

The five Remnant survivors narrowed their eyes at him. "Are you saying," piped Ren, "that there could be Huntsmen among them?"

"We do not have anything conclusive, Mister Lie. At this moment, we are still building a profile on one such particular member."

Forked Lightning grunted. "Right. So we have three choices: head west deep into Siberia, go back to Manchuria, or travel half-way across the world to the Baltics to investigate more rogue Huntsmen. What comes next? Assassinate Lenin? Pacify Palestine? Spy on the Raj?"

" _Sergent_ ," Vastel warned.

Hillard sighed. "At ease. Jaune, perhaps I am overdue of an apology. I doubt it would do much at this point."

"A little too late to play that card, don't you think?" hissed the blonde sergeant. He challenged the stern look sent his way by the lieutenant.

"You are not wrong. In place of an apology, I offer you my word."

"Is your word even worth anything," Weiss sniped.

"It is," he countered. He stiffened at attention. "On my honor as a gentleman and a human being with a shred of dignity. As soon as our mission here in Russia is complete and upon the conclusion of your respective operations, I will endeavor to have you all discharged from the Bureau."

Jaune's eyebrows shot high up. Someone coughed over a row of rasping gasps. Come again? He heard that, right? Was he being serious with this? Was this a genuine offer, a genuine compromise? The major's face was devoid of malice and he stretched out his hand in a gesture of open agreement.

"This is the best I can do for you after all that you have done. The Bureau may seem ungrateful but I am."

The blonde sergeant stared at his hand. And back up at him. He felt ill to admit it but Hillard never really abandoned them. He kept close during their campaign in Northern Russia. His strategy prevailed against Tchaikovsky's took responsibility for this pear-shaped mess of an operation here in the Far East and orchestrated a risky rescue effort. If it wasn't for him, he would never have been able to reunite with Weiss or Yang or Blake or Ren. Then again, was that enough? "How can I trust you?"

"You don't have to."

"What are your conditions?" raised Weiss. "Surely there is something underneath this."

"The only condition is your full cooperation with us."

Sergeant Arkos stared at the map. Siberia, Manchuria, and the Baltic. Thousands of miles apart. "On your word, promise me that we won't be split apart to deal with these problems of yours on our own."

Hillard smirked. "Now why would we do that? Archangel will operate as a single unit. Your force disposition is up to Lieutenant Vastel and I doubt he is keen to keep a wide berth between you. No soldier can win a battle alone."

Jaune felt Weiss wrap her hands over his arm. She was unsure. She was afraid. She wanted out. Yang and Blake were equally uncertain, their expressions mirroring the apprehension prevalent among the rest of Archangel. Laval had a family waiting for him in France. As did Baz, Avi, Gosse, Tubrin, Sabeneux, Yver, and Gaspard.

"Jaune," she mewled, "please...be wise."

Whether or not his decision had any wisdom behind it was moot. He had already made his decision. Not that there was a roster of better choices. "We're in this...together."

Forked Lightning reached over and locked Hillard in a firm handshake. His jaded sapphires clashed with the piercing hues of the SSB major.

"Shall we get to work, sergeant?"

Sergeant Ionas 'Jaune Arc' Arkos withdrew and held Lady Weiss 'Isha' Schnee. Both were not pleased. Both were dour. Yet they both came to an agreement. If this was their safest avenue of release, then so be it.

"What needs to be done?" Weiss calmly inquired.

"We need to address our most immediate problem," Hillard began. "The leadership of the provisional government is in dire straits. Their forces are stretched thin over a wide front and transitions between governing parties would damage their unity. The Red Army knows this and would surely strike at the barest hint of weakness. If that happens, _we_ interventionists will be in dire straits. So far, we have established a presence in Irkutsk and reports from there have been troubling."

"So we're going to help the Whites this time," Yang said. Irkutsk was behind borders demarcating territory controlled by the Reds and their proxies. "We beef up the White army?"

"Rather keep them from falling apart."

"What's the objective here?" Jaune asked.

"The objective is to retrieve the 'Supreme Ruler of Russia.'"

"'Supreme Ruler?'" Blake chimed.

"Admiral Alexander Kolchak," Ren answered much to the surprise of everyone else. "Fought in the Siege of Port Arthur and later in the Great War."

"Impressive. I never considered you to be so appraised to personalities and events outside of Chinese borders," Hillard remarked evenly. "Yes. 'Supreme Ruler' Kolchak is being ousted from his position and the War Office disagrees. Have you met him, Lady Schnee?"

Weiss shook her head. "No. I have heard much about him, though."

"Very well. Whatever opinions you have of him, keep to yourself. Better yet, suspend them until he has been retrieved."

"A rescue mission?" hummed Blake.

Yang pumped her fist with a nod at her partner. "Nothing we haven't done before. You have a plan?"

Vastel stepped forward. " _We_ have a plan." He directed his mug to Forked Lightning. "Though it would be best to go over it with you. All of you. Your safety is my responsibility and I would be damned to aggrieve anyone with terrible news of their loved ones."

The two sergeants shared a glance. The rest of the platoon were resolute. They were willing. That was good enough. Jaune nodded at the lieutenant.

"Archangel is all ears, sir."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: February 5, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: February 17, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 17, 2019**

 **NOTE:** **The first half of this epilogue was meant to be the final chapter but plans change during the writing process. And if you think this is where it ends, there is still the second half or the second epilogue along with my parting notes.**

 **Again, thank you to everyone who took the time to read this. Your reviews and PMs have been very helpful, insightful, and encouraging.**

* * *

 **Translations:**

 ** _D_ _é_ _sol_ _é_ _de vous d_ _é_ _ranger_. = Sorry to bother you. [French]**

 ** _Non_ , _non_. _C'est bien_. _Qu'est-ce que_ _ç_ _'est_? = No, no. It's fine. What is it? [French]**

 _ **On arrive**_ **. = We are on our way. [French]**


	50. EPILOGUE II - December 3, 1919

_December 3, 1919_

* * *

Lady Weiss 'Isha' Schnee prowled about the diplomatic estate until she wound up in what had at one point been the ballroom. Now more an empty cavernous hall decorated with potted plants and paintings of histories she cared less of, the current events did not diminish its purpose of hosting events or visiting dignitaries.

She found herself standing solitary before the grand staircase. A fleeting lapse in awareness deceived her into seeing the homely pair of guardian knights standing vigilant on both flanks. Cream paint faded to the white of the snow outside and she was nearly drunk with nostalgia. And it was Jaune's voice that broke her out of her daydreams of the Schnee manor.

"Weiss?"

She turned around and there he was, shuffling towards her. Confused. Worried. Dressed not in the sullied uniforms that screamed war. Rather, his simple tolstovka complimented his weathered frame. He had even shaved off his budding mane.

"Hey," he waved. "Um, what have you been up to?"

"Reminiscing," she breathed emptily.

Jaune slumped. "I see."

Weiss ran her hand across the varnished wooden rail of the staircase. "This place reminds me of home."

He paused to savor the decorum. "I can see that."

She raised her brow at him. "You haven't been to my family's property."

He shrugged. "I've seen enough places to imagine what your mansion looks like."

"True. Honestly, the white and blue motif had lost its luster when I was seven," she told him. "There isn't much to do around here. Yang is busy sparring with the boys. Blake went up to the conservatory."

"Ren's up there with her. She wanted to learn his meditation techniques." A weak chuckle. "Fitting for her to have the calmer head in these matters. Never could get around to actually learning that Chinese monk stuff."

"Perhaps we all need clearer heads," she mouthed. Weiss felt Jaune boring into her back. She met him in the middle of the floor, clasping his hands to rob his attention from the marble floor. She whispered into his chest, "I'm afraid of what we've gotten ourselves into."

He wrapped his arm around her waist, squeezing away the inches keeping them. "I am too."

"I want this to be over," she breathed into his shoulder. "If we have to bleed for it, then we bleed together."

"It was out of our hands. I could have walked away but it had already been too late for that. I was played. We were played."

And he was not wrong, Weiss agreed. They were ensnared, used, abused, and rescued. Only to be yoked to repeat the same until those above them achieved their desired results. Results that they claimed benefited everyone. A shame the five of them were numb to those benefits. "Jaune, what's done is done. We're here now."

He nodded. "Yeah. You're right."

Weiss forced out her most confident smile. "That's why we should make the most of our time while we still have control over it."

"What do you—"

She grabbed his hands and forced her leg between his. A soft folk hymn breathed through her sealed lips. Jaune was startled but she kept pushing. And pulling. In a moment, he caught on with her footwork. He glanced back at her with a dumb grin. Weiss continued humming until they were both waltzing around the ballroom. Sidestep here, sidestep there. Twirl. Sidestep, turn, sidestep, twirl. All while she replayed the melody from the music box Anya once owned in Tsarskoye Selo.

Jaune may have revealed a hidden talent at the Beacon Dance those many days ago but the waltz was what defined him. His pacing was uneven yet he managed to catch on. Matching her every step with his own in good fashion. They had lost track of time with how distant the world around them had become. By then, a thumb's length is what kept their faces apart.

"Weiss, I—"

The former heiress shushed him with her own lips. It was longer and deeper than the one she had given him on the icy Arctic docks of Arkhangelsk. This time, she pressed close as did he. They parted for breath only to savor the desire brewing in their hearts. Once more, they locked again, hands threatening to break free to cross boundaries.

Until a loud, haughty cough tore them back to the presence of Lieutenant Vastel standing on the threshold.

Weiss turned her back immediately with a mind to string them up with her glyphs. Alas, Jaune stayed her hand—his grip on her wrist was warm. " _D_ _é_ _sol_ _é_. Are we needed, sir?"

Vastel regarded them neutrally. "Pack your belongings. We will be traveling west tonight."

"Yes, sir."

"We'll get to it, lieutenant."

The disfigured officer gave them a dismissive wave as he shifted on his heels to leave the way he came. "I will give you an hour to enjoy each other's company. And for the sake of modesty, do not get carried away. You are not the only people on the property."

The former heiress stared dumbly at him until he vanished behind the corner. "We're not decadent hedonists, you know."

"We still have time," Jaune remarked, tugging on her hand.

Come to think of it, it was close to midday and they did not have much in the way of personal belongings to prepare for their grueling journey into the frigid Siberian wilderness. They were assured the SSB would provide them with the necessary equipment to survive the outdoors.

Weiss once again resumed her stance. "Shall we?"

Jaune beamed back at her. "We shall, _ma'amselle_."

She feigned disappointment. Complete with the stiff lower lip. "Your footwork needs improvement."

"That's why I learn from the best. Care to teach me?"

She did. And they danced until noon.

* * *

Sergeant Ionas 'Jaune Arc' Arkos stared at the grand map of the world spanning a mural's breadth of wall space in the study. Unlike the mess of an atlas haphazardly tacked onto the concrete slabs under Yang's mansion in Peking, this one was a clean print devoid of colorful pins or obtrusive lines of thread. All the relevant notes were segregated atop the desks and tables spread about. Other smaller maps lay inked with on-going developments.

He rested half his weight on an unoccupied chair while staring up at the details of the known world. So many places, so much bigger than Remnant... In fact, he estimated the size of Remnant either to encompass the whole of Europe or fit snugly into the gargantuan expanse of water that was the Pacific Ocean. This fresh perspective on geography recast how much he thought of Earth as a whole.

"It's a small world," Hillard intoned from the back.

Jaune raised his brow at his superior enjoying some tea.

"To answer your question: yes. Adam Taurus has proven himself both a serious asset and a grave liability. The War Office has plans for him should he be brought to the fold. And, no. I do not know what those plans are."

"Are you going to induct him into Archangel?" Jaune queried.

Hillard set down his mug. "That is not for me to say. I was only given orders."

"Orders from who?"

"The War Office. Remember: we are an extension. No one has to like their orders but we are to obey them regardless."

Indeed. The scars all over his body, hidden mostly by his long-sleeved clothes and trousers, were clear evidences of such obedience no matter how reluctant. "What about the Freikorps agent?"

"Patience, Jaune. Our presence in Eastern Europe has diminished since the armistice. Only recently have we begun to redeploy some of our best agents."

Forked Lightning raised his brow. He glanced back at the map, particularly over the Far East. Other than Polaris, how many others had been operating under the nose of the warlords in this theater of the world? "I wonder why..."

"They express their thanks to you for making their jobs easier."

Of course, they did. No more pushing papers or running errands for the Chinese. "Do I detect sarcasm?"

"With a dash of genuine gratitude."

Jaune pulled up the chair to sit. It was three in the afternoon and they had already packed what they could for their next mission. There was a lot of time before their departure. "I know this is a bit early to ask but...how much do you know of Adam?"

Hillard frowned. "I see patience is not your strong suit."

Just answer the damn question, you bastard. "So I've been told."

"Pay attention then. Mister Taurus is a skilled and highly effective mercenary. He is rightfully feared by both friend and foe. As far as the Bureau is concerned, his activities in the Far East have been worrisome but telling. He cannot be left to his own devices."

"Did you get Polaris's reports?"

"We have. His efforts were not in vain."

He better be remembered. "Where do you think Adam is right now?"

"I don't know. We don't know."

Jaune nodded. Fair enough. It has been barely a week since they screwed things up over there so chances are, the bull faunus went into hiding to wait out the storm. Or traveled elsewhere to seek work. "Okay. How about...how about the Freikorps agent? How much do you know of him...or her?"

The major let out an exasperated sigh. "You are skirting boundaries here, you know."

"So...no answer?"

Hillard regarded him. Stern, weighted eyes bore into him, silently casting judgment. "You are vexingly insistent."

"Rumors will suffice," the blonde sergeant offered.

"Rumors are all that we have at this moment." The major withdrew something from his desk: an envelope containing photographs dated on the same year. Each one bore scenes of battle in the streets of a German city. Armed men in steel helmets and military overcoats, some posing behind makeshift barricades, others actively engaged in a firefight including a platoon using a flamethrower. " _These_ are the Freikorps. Veterans fighting against their own citizens in Berlin, their own capital. Taken in January in the heat of their own revolution."

So these were the paramilitaries causing trouble in Eastern Europe. They were not too dissimilar from the troops Jaune clashed with in France. Same people, same equipment. But these were different faces forming a different army fighting in a different battlefield. No open fields, no cratered trenches, no clouds of poisonous gas. A city burning, streets lined with the dead and dying. For Germany, it seemed, the fighting never ended.

"The agent," Hillard continued, "came to the fore no later than that. Participated in skirmishes in the Baltic, supposedly reinforced the Iron Brigade, and was widely believed to be instrumental in their victory over the Bolsheviks in Livonia."

Jaune gawked at him. "They were on our side?"

"Not quite. We only had a common foe and that was the Red Army. When they had beaten them back, we demanded they withdraw back to Germany. They responded by going on the offensive to seize Latvia. The War Office authorized British material support against them. We gave the Latvians guns, equipment, and the Estonians managed to salvage some of the armored trains left behind in the Great War. It was not enough. Even though they were outnumbered, the Freikorps held their ground. To this day, they have yet to be dislodged from the Baltics."

"Because of the Huntsman."

"Hunt _ress_ ," the major corrected.

"A woman?" Could be someone he knew? Or someone he may have met or heard about with Huntress-like capabilities? A few came to mind but he had to be sure. "Do you have a name?"

"No."

It was a deadpan response. Blunt and unassuming to a question. Yet, strangely, something in his gut screamed something secretive. Sergeant Arkos narrowed his gaze with a risen brow. "No?"

"We do not have her name."

No name? That was ridiculous. The name would be the first thing to figure out, alias or no. Was Hillard lying? Hiding pertinent information? "You don't know who she is yet, do you?"

"Unfortunately."

"When can we know?"

"When we ourselves also know." Hillard reclaimed the photographs and replaced them back in his drawer. This topic of conversation was over.

"What about a monicker?" Jaune pressed. It was not over for him. Whether it was something instinctive or plain stubbornness, he needed to know. "She has to have a nickname. Or an alias that everybody knows about by now. She has been fighting in those places for a while. People would know about her. Word travels fast."

The major glared. "Jaune. Now is not the time."

"Then when is the time? This is not for my own curiosity," he argued. "This is to put us at ease. Make us less anxious, less paranoid. Less worried that there is another Adam Taurus out there, raising hell or much worse. If anything...it's going to affect our performance in the field. The mission...might be harder to accomplish if our minds aren't at ease."

Hillard continued to fume at him in silence. Until he locked the door and dropped his voice to a low growl. "You need to work on your arguments. Be grateful I hold you in high regard. I will humor you this once."

"Please. Sir."

"... They call her ' _Die Walk_ _ü_ _re_.'"

Jaune blinked. He heard that right. He had to have heard that right. "What?"

The major cleared his throat. "The Valkyrie."

* * *

To say that Ren cracked would be the only fitting description to what was on display.

Broken from his meditation, the Serpent Monk sat rigidly on a settee in the manor's conservatory. Gone was the relaxed air surrounding him, replaced instead by an unsteady stiffness conveyed through clenched fists resting on his lap. He gazed distantly at the floor, too absorbed in his own shock to acknowledge presence of those around him.

Jaune had never seen his old friend in this state before. The very mention of the Valkyrie sent him into a fugue. Everyone in their circle of five knew why. Ren was not the only one reeling from the revelation.

Weiss found her voice. "So...Nora is here?"

"She has to be, right?" Yang said. "Who else could they be referring to?"

"Unless it is Nora, it could be someone with an interest in Norse mythology?" Blake suggested neutrally. "If I recall correctly, valkyries are the sort of the angels of the afterlife. I found some Western books on the topic back in Manchuria."

The blonde sergeant sat down beside his teammate. "Ren, buddy. Hey, uh...we're not exactly sure who it is. It's the only name they've picked up."

Slowly, the Monk began to speak. Each word loosened his grip on the fabric of his trousers. "You're right. There is no definitive answer."

"But we do have an identity or as much a profile," the former heiress piped. "She's called the Valkyrie, she's operating alongside the Freikorps, and she's somewhere in the Baltic."

"She could be a Huntress," Yang added, "or a really crafty fighter."

"Nora was neither subtle nor very crafty," Ren said, finally gazing up at the four of them with more life in his eyes. "Her faults do not worry me. If Nora is here on this planet, then I do not doubt she will last long. Thank you, Jaune. For bringing this to me."

He clapped his shoulder. "No problem."

Weiss sighed. "So we have, potentially, Nora and Adam to worry about."

Yang turned to her partner. "Blake? Do you think Adam's going to be a big issue? Y'know, without us around to keep the balance?"

Blake shied away, her faunus ears folding. "I don't know. He was so...different. I hardly know him anymore. He's changing. He used to be somebody who was passionate about our cause. Then he became absorbed in it. Too much. Now? I...can't tell anymore. He was angry. But...not at me. More...at himself." She dropped dejectedly onto a cushioned chair. "I don't know if he's the same or if he's gotten worse."

"Or better?" Jaune raised. Reviling as Adam's actions were, the blonde sergeant could never forget the insecurity that shone through the bull faunus upon their first interrogation. "We can't discount the possibility. Then again, we can't know exactly what's going on with him. But we all saw what happened. He broke."

No one could go against that.

"Whatever the case, we'll be there to iron him out again. If we have to—"

Someone knocked on the door. It was Laval, relaying an order from Vastel: Archangel was to gather their equipment at the armory and rendezvous at the parlor in forty minutes.

Jaune glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, ticking away the daylight. Five in the afternoon.

"We'll be there," he told Laval who departed immediately. Then he turned to his friends, his _team_. "Alright, everyone. There is a lot going on that we're getting thrown into. But we need to have a clear head and a solid grip on ourselves if we're going to come out of this intact. Right now, our mission is to get Admiral Kolchak out of trouble. Whether or not this civil war ends on our terms or theirs"—he paused to stay his emotions—"or whether or not we want to be involved in this to begin with...we now have responsibilities, the foremost being the safety of the people caught in the crossfire."

He approached the windows. The city of Vladivostok was bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. Snow smoothed rigid corners and blanketed most of the outside. Smoke rose from chimneys and ships sailed in and out of the harbor. People went about the end of their day, worrying over their own problems and living their own lives, aware and accepting of whatever fate would befall them.

"White or Red, it doesn't matter. None of us ever asked for this. _Putain_ , we have the free will to ignore this. To let the world burn. But what does that make us? How does that solve all our problems? We'll just be running away until there's nowhere left to run. If the SSB can't hound us, someone else will. And I prefer to be blown up by artillery than to live that kind of life."

Jaune faced his fellow operatives. Though they were uneasy, nary a trace of disapproval graced their features. He regarded Blake with an equal eye on Yang.

"We're going to have to go after Adam in the long run. Even if Hillard says otherwise, we'll have to prepare for that. If we're not coming after him, he might come after us. I hope this wouldn't be too much for either of you."

The Feng-t'ien Ghost breathed deep. Her faunus ears straightened. "It won't."

The Anfu Dragon clenched her mechanical fist. "We'll be ready."

"Good. Chances are we might end up back in Manchuria." Forked Lightning meandered over to the Serpent Monk. "While we're there, we can dig up some more clues on the Valkyrie. Best bet are the German legations in Tientsin and Peking. It's going to suck going back there, I know. Hopefully by then, we'll be better prepared. And hopefully, we'll find something."

"Anything to gain clarity before we act," Ren settled. "Better to know the enemy as we know ourselves."

"You got that right, Sun Tzu," Yang remarked with a thumbs up. "Because if the SSB won't sic us after Adam, they'll sic us on the Valkyrie anyway."

"If neither, we'll end up fighting someone," Blake firmly resounded.

Lastly, Jaune closed the gap with Weiss. Her hands slipped into his and he held them up to his chest.

"At the end of this, we're going home. All of us. I'll do my best to make sure that happens. You have my word. And an Arc—"

"—never goes back on his word," she with the burning faith and confidence that she had in him.

Sergeant Ionas Arkos beamed back at her. Lady Schnee took him in a warm embrace topped with a chaste engagement on the lips. She pulled back and he regarded his team, every one of them showcasing the will to continue onwards. "Alright, Archangel. Let's go."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: February 20, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: February 23, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 23, 2019**

 **NOTE: There we have it. The second half of the epilogue and the definitive conclusion to _Archangel_.**

 **For the nth time, I express my thanks to everybody who took the time to read this here fan fiction of mine. It's been a wild ride with ups and downs and the occasional brick wall that I call 'burn out.' (** **Yes. I was fringing burn out with this story throughout Act III but I persevered through it.)**

 **Now, I believe I've expressed myself fully with my notes at the end of the final chapter of Act III (Chapter 48). Here's the extra I wanted to throw out there:**

 ** _I've already drafted an outline for a potential Act IV or a potential sequel._ I say 'potential' because as of this posting (February 22, 2019), it's got a lot of kinks to work out, it needs deeper research into historical events, and it's only a rough rundown of the ideas that I brainstormed back in September/October, 2018. Granted, I might be revising them or scrapping them entirely for a new plot line. Which brings me to my next point...**

 ** _I will be focusing on other works._ I've invested significant time and effort into this story that I constantly teetered on burn out. To remedy that, I found it best to take breaks. Step back, step outside, experience things. Watch other shows, play video games, listen to music other than Battlefield's OST. I will still be writing but it would be my other stories.**

 ** _This isn't exactly the end._ This segued into the beginning of a new timeline which hopefully won't be too different from ours. This is the Interbellum, AKA the 'Roaring Twenties,' AKA the Great Depression, AKA the rise of the Nazis and the Soviets, AKA Prohibition, etc. If I would be working on a sequel or at least an anthology of related anecdotes, it'd probably be called 'Interbellum Chronicles' or something. Additionally, I'm holding off on the Remnant issue (AKA 'bridge-between-worlds' thing) because I find it a sensitive plot point and, if handled improperly, could derail the story entirely.**

 **One more thing before I sign off: there is a _third_ epilogue. That was supposed to be the second epilogue (this chapter) but it came off as more of an opening to a whole new story. So I set it aside and came up with this instead. I might publish that as an extended epilogue or an omake or maybe even the first chapter of the Interbellum Chronicles if I ever get around to it.**

 **Well, it's been fun and educational.** ** _Spasibo bolshoye_ , _merci beaucoup_ , many thanks, each and every one of you!**


	51. OMAKE - Some time after the Fall

**OMAKE**

* * *

 _Some time after the Fall_

* * *

Saphron Cotta-Arc awoke with a start.

She was back in her bed. Back in the safety of her home in Argus, the most protected city on the northern fringes of Mistral. She was back with her family; back with her wife Terra and their three-year-old son Adrian.

Not in wherever fresh hell she was in her dream.

It was the same dream—no—the same nightmare. Details varied but it was always the same. And it hurt the more it lingered in her addled mind. So vivid, so real, it was like reliving someone's life in a world so different yet so similar.

Saphron dropped her head into her hands only to find them trembling, damp with her own sweat...and perhaps tears, too. Her nightmares were unrelenting in the display of the worst horrors humanity could endure: the unforgiving cold from the rain, the stale soup served on tin plates, the odor of rotting corpses left unburied across the battlefield. And there was the desperation brought by the desire to survive, the misery of living in a muddy trench, the searing pain from horrid injuries.

Her fists clenched; she needed to get a grip! This was getting out of control and it was affecting her. Affecting Terra. Affecting Adrian. Though technically improbable, she believed that her mounting fear, anxiety, and general negativity might spiral into a beacon for Grimm, Atlas protection be damned.

"Saph, hon?"

Terra Cotta-Arc stirred in the sheets beside her. She switched on the lamp and donned her glasses. Now she was awake at three in the morning.

"Hon? Oh Gods... Is it...?"

Saphron nodded, tears threatening to burst through. "It's back...it's back again..."

Terra wrapped her arms around her spouse. "Oh, Saph, honey."

She reciprocated the embrace with one persistent thought resurfacing out of the flood of images that lingered so damningly clearly in her mind: she needed to find the Huntsman who recovered the Arc family heirloom Crocea Mors from the ruins of Beacon Academy. She needed to track down Qrow Branwen for answers. Answers that may be vague or may not help at all.

At this point, however, long after riding the emotional roller-coaster that followed the devastating news of the fate of her dearest brother Jaune, she could care less. She wanted something. Desperately needed something. Concrete or intangible so long as it assuaged this plague on her psyche.

Anything to explain even in the slightest why she was constantly dreaming about this horrifying...war. Where men in blue uniforms willingly charged to their deaths over cratered battlefields only to be ripped apart by the guns of soldiers wearing black. Where she found herself in the body of her reportedly late brother Jaune Arc.

Unkempt, uneasy, unwell. Unmistakeable. Dressed in a blue uniform, ripped and tattered, bearing holes where gaping holes and ugly gashes were sealed up by a honeycomb glow. Wielding either a period rifle or a bloody shovel. Words of a different language echoing over the noise of battle.

Screaming at the top of his voice until his throat was sore. Charging wildly into the fray, caring not for his own well-being or of those around him.

Shooting without mercy. No remorse for those felled by his dented spade.

Frenzied.

Shot.

Stabbed.

Blown up.

But still alive. Watching open wounds and bleeding gashes seal up through the power of Aura. Pulled back to be treated by stressed medics. Then cleared and thrown back into muddy trenches to fight again.

Tonight was no different. Tonight, she had once more been imprisoned in the body of her deceased brother. Watching him shave in front of a cracked mirror. Dry, empty eyes stared back through the glass. Hollow blue irises devoid of the life that defined him. His blonde hair was a dirty mess while his arm was wrapped in layers of sullied, bloodstained bandages. Bandages that he unwound shortly thereafter to reveal scars freshly healed by Aura.

Without a doubt, these wounds would either be reopened later or replaced by new ones. Then someone screamed orders. Up and down the trench, the men in blue affixed bayonets at the end of their rifles. Others propped up ladders with a foot on a rung ready to go over the top. She could not control his hands as they locked the handle of the blade below the barrel of the gun. She tried to stop his legs from moving over to a vacant ladder, trailed closely by the eyes of every other soldier he passed.

She screamed when the officers blew the whistles. She screamed when he went over the top. She screamed and she screamed until she woke up.

Saphron withdrew from her wife and took a moment to compose herself. The quirks of being married to a technician working for the Atlas military meant being made aware every now and then of certain bits that were not meant for the public. It also meant an occasional off-the-record favor. "Terra. I'm going to need your help."

Terra cautiously regarded her. "... Is this going to involve the military?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Her wife raised her brow. "You think the military will get you out of your funk?"

"Not the army specifically," Saphron clarified. As far as she knew, Qrow Branwen was a Huntsman with a reputation that slipped through the tight lips of the Huntsman world. The man did have an interesting history with the Atlas military, having had many public spats with General James Ironwood himself...and getting into a destructive brawl with one of his specialists. "Only a certain someone who they might know."

"Someone in the Atlas military?"

"No. But getting to him might involve a lot of someones in the Atlas military." Saphron found it hard to look her wife straight in the eyes, instead finding her twiddling thumbs far more interesting. She knew she was pushing the envelope here. "... You don't have to do it, though. I mean, if it's going to cost you your job—"

Terra rested her hand over hers. The look on her face conveyed nothing but comforting support. "I'm on board."

Saphron beamed. "Thank you."

"Anything for you, hon."

* * *

 **ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: February 14, 2019**

 **LAST EDITED: February 28, 2019**

 **INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 28, 2019**

 **NOTE: Surprise. I could not ignore this idea. And for the information of anyone out there wondering, this is related to my spinoff story _Carry Me Home_ revolving around Qrow and Winter.**


End file.
